A Holt New Reality
by RSteele82
Summary: (A HOW Series) A continuation of Steele Cold Facts. Laura has returned home to LA, resigned to facing, alone, a future she'd never envisioned. Will Remington and Laura be able to repair the damage wrought on their relationship by fear and anger?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Daniel glanced at his watch. It had been near on twenty-five minutes since Laura had regally walked through the living room to the front room, then had left, the door closing behind her. He could hear the creak of the boards on the balcony, as Harry remained outside, pacing. Rubbing his chin with the tip of his fingers, he wondered what might have gone awry, foiling his carefully crafted plan.

Whatever it was, it didn't seem Harry would be inclined to come inside any time soon, no doubt vexed with Daniel as well, given his suspicions Daniel was up to something.

Well, until Harry came in, there wasn't much to be accomplished sitting here on the couch. Whereas, a phone call might inspire the next step to be taken.

Returning to his bedroom, he shut the door behind him, then picked up the portable phone and dialed the number long ago memorized.

"The Remington Steele Agency, Krebs here," Mildred answered the phone in a crisp, professional voice.

"Ahhh, Ms. Krebs. Daniel Chalmers, here," he announced. She snapped to attention where she sat at her desk.

"So, how'd it go?" she asked, eagerly. "When's the Boss coming back?"

"Not well, my dear," he answered. "I'm afraid they had quite the row, from what I could make of it." Her initially crestfallen expression righted itself.

"Aww," she poo-pooed, "Don't worry about that." She waved a dismissive hand no one could see. "If those two don't fight at least once a day, _that's_ when you have to worry."

"I suspect it's more serious than that, unfortunately," he disagreed. "I quite clearly heard him demand she take her leave." She flopped backwards in her chair and lifted a palm to lay it against her cheek.

" _The Boss_ ," she drew out the words, "Kicked Miss Holt out?" She shook her head, disbelieving. "Uh-uh, he'd never do that," she defended.

"I have to agree it's quite out of Harry's character, but nevertheless, I'm afraid he did." The apology in his voice surprised her.

"I'm telling you, this all goes back to that nonsense with the license," she lamented. "I've never seen them happier than after they were rescued from that cabin, and then that case come along…" She imitated the sounds of an explosion. "I know the Boss owns the Agency, but it's _everything_ to Miss—"

"Slow down, my dear. I'm going to need you to start at the beginning. Rescued, you said?"

* * *

Shortly before dawn, Daniel was pried from his dreams by the sound of crashing glass, followed by a string of oaths. Slurred, obviously drunken oaths. Unsurprised, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his robe.

He'd been waiting weeks for the boy to tie one on, not that it was a habit of Harry's. Outside of a couple of missteps as a youth when first learning to handle his alcohol, he'd only seen Harry in his cups once before: In the days after Anna's demise. Although Harry had grieved the woman, it was the belief he might have done something to prevent her death that had tormented him. Much like now, he'd prowled the streets for hours each night, until, finally, on one drunken night, he'd released the demons chasing him.

And had been all the better for it.

Hindsight was a cruel mistress, Daniel reflected as he tied the sash on his robe, constantly taunting him with the ways in which he'd failed the man stumbling about in the living room. Here was yet another. Not the drinking, as Harry generally controlled his alcohol consumption with an iron fist, unwilling to dull his wits, should the need to fight or take flight arise.

No, the failure was in accepting Harry's reticence to talk whenever things simply became too… large… for him. While normally the gregarious sort who was not the least bit shy about sharing his exploits, he'd a habit of holding the things that mattered most to him close to the vest, be it to avoid disapproval or to provide anyone an opportunity to exploit it. It was how Daniel was so ably to 'key in,' so to speak, on Harry's devotion to his Miss Holt.

* * *

" _ **Ah, Miss Holt is quite a bundle isn't she?"**_

 _ **"Hmm, yes, yes."**_

 _ **"Intelligent, independent, scrupulously honest. In short, everything you ordinarily loathe in a woman."**_

 _ **"Yes…Ummm…But she does have a certain…uh ..."**_

 _ **"Allure?"**_

 _ **"Uniqueness."**_

" _ **You know for someone who could never stay tied to one place or one of anything for very long, you sound almost domesticated."**_

 _ **"Does that sadden you Daniel?"**_

 _ **"It intrigues me."**_

* * *

And intrigued him, it had. Despite how enraptured the lad had been with Anna, he'd often boasted of her many attributes: intelligence, quick wit, daring… her rubenesque form. But with his Miss Holt? From his very first 'hmm' in answer to a question about her, Harry had been remarkably closed mouth, providing only one adjective about her: 'uniqueness.' But what a telling word it had been, for never before had Harry looked upon a woman as being rare, as the descriptor implied.

Not even Anna.

Still, Daniel had failed to interpret Harry's reticence correctly. He'd thought the lad was intrigued. Perhaps a bit besotted. Most certainly enamored by the challenge his Miss Holt was proving to be. But, Daniel had been confident that once Harry had conquered that challenge, he'd quickly become bored with living the straight-and-narrow, with the tedium of his Miss Holt's constant demands that he live honestly, by the rules and he'd move on.

* * *

 _ **"You never did get Laura and I quite right, Daniel. Not everything is an elaborate ruse or a conquest to be had. Sometimes… just sometimes… a man is fortunate enough to discover something so rare… so infinitely appealing… that he is willing to go all in should the other player not quit the table."**_

* * *

Those words, by Harry, had caught Daniel unprepared. It was only then he'd realized Harry's reluctance to speak of the woman was because she'd become _that_ person to him, the person upon whom he'd been willing to wager it all…

As Daniel had once been prepared to do.

Linda had become to Harry both his greatest treasure and his Achilles heel.

Now, having meant to or not, she'd taken the boy to his knees.

If he was to get Harry talking, now would be the time. Perhaps it was not the gentlemanly thing to do, taking advantage of Harry while he was in his cups, but it was in times such as these that he let his guard down. And once the cat was out of the proverbial bag… Well…

Reaching for the knob on the bedroom door, he turned it, swung up the door and stepped into the living room.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Remington stumbled on his way to the bar, crashing arms first into the glassware and stemware, the musical sound of glass meeting glass filling the air. Uttering a string of oaths, out of habit he righted the glasses, then uttered a second round when he realized he'd inadvertently set the glass he'd been drinking from amongst the clean ones. With bleary eyes, he found his glass, then splashed another generous portion of scotch into it. Swaying on his feet, he took the decanter with him, this time, as he weaved his way back to the balcony.

It had only taken five words by Laura to leave in tatters all that he'd ever believed of her, to shatter his every hope.

* * *

" _ **To Mexico City."**_

* * *

" _ **I'm pregnant."**_

* * *

Rubbing his hand against the ache in his chest which just wouldn't ease, he drank deep from the glass, then filled it again. He dropped, hard, to sit down on the side of lounge chair, then took another healthy swallow of the amber liquor, appreciating its vague burn as it went down.

He wanted to forget. He wanted to obliterate even the possibility of thought. He wanted to sink into a drunken oblivion of nothingness.

Then wished to stay there until this gnawing ache went away.

 _Bloody fight for her_! _What have I been doing for her all these years if not fighting for her?!_ He'd ended his pursuit of the Royal Lavulite. He'd stayed. He'd changed. He'd waited for her.

Emptying the glass again, he splashed more in.

He'd waited for her. Even when it had seemed so easy for her to turn and walk away the first time they'd been in Cannes, he'd waited.

And then she had been his.

Oh, what a heady feeling it had been. For far too short a time, he'd been able to kiss her without first measuring whether or not she'd be receptive. He'd been able to draw her into his embrace, if only to hold her, while she'd allowed his arms to encircle her without hesitation. He'd known how it felt to fall asleep of a night with her soft breath against his chest, her fingers absently stroking his chest and side. He'd finally experienced the pleasure of waking to her of a morning, her very presence beside him starting the day on the finest of notes.

He'd allowed himself to believe… to begin to dream.

He barely noticed when Daniel stepped onto the balcony and took the decanter and glass out of his hands. He didn't fight it. Merely leaned forward, pressed his elbows to knees and rested his bowed head in his hands.

"Much more and you'll risk alcohol poisoning, my boy." Daniel's criticized softly. Remington lifted his head. As he struggled to focus on the man in front of him, his head lolled, then dropped back into his hands.

"I'd have gone all in, Daniel," he slurred.

"So, you've said before," Daniel answered, keeping his voice low, as he sat down next to Remington. "What happened, Harry?" Remington shook his head, then stilled completely at the risk further movement would empty his stomach of its contents.

"Three weeks of bliss. After all these years, that's all I'd get." Daniel's brows lifted at this. It would seem Ms. Krebs' was right in her belief Harry and his Miss Holt had, at long last, given in and tumbled into bed with one another while stranded in that mountain cabin.

"Then she quit the table…" he speculated. Remington sucked in a harsh breath, sitting up straight, be damned the spinning balcony, to rub at his chest. Letting his head fall back, he closed his eyes.

"I'd wanted her to be mine, _only mine_. Had believed she'd wished me to be hers, as well."

"But she didn't?" Daniel asked, quietly.

"Oh, ho, ho, no…." Remington answered in a long, sad laugh. Shifting, he flopped back in the chaise, his legs still hanging over the side. He welcomed the darkness creeping in on the edges of his mind. "Came to my flat to announce she was going away with another man. So I—" He flipped a hand in gesticulation, his arm falling heavily to his side afterwards, as Daniel reared his head back and frowned. _Linda?_

"Then why ever would she come after you?" he wondered aloud. Remington's brows furrowed, trying to discern Daniel's words, as the darkness continued to close in on him. With a shake of his head, he slung an arm over his eyes, eager for nothingness to take him away.

"She's with child…" he mumbled, his tongue so heavy his words were barely coherent. Daniel did a double take at the news. "Said we'd ten days… to make… a decision…" He snorted a derisive, sleepy laugh. "Tried to hang it… 'round my neck… Told her… to… get…o—"

Stunned, Daniel sat beside Remington for a long moment after he passed out, before slowly rising and easing Remington's legs up on the chaise. Picking up glass and decanter, he returned the decanter to the bar then, after setting the glass in the kitchen sink, returned to the balcony to drape Remington with a light blanket. Reclining on the chaise adjacent to Remington's, he settled in, prepared to keep an eye on his charge, as he had on another occasion, several years before.

 _Linda… pregnant?_

 _Another man?_

It boggled the mind. The information gleaned from Harry was completely at odds with the morally uptight, married-to-the-truth, puritanical Miss Holt he'd come to know across the years.

And it also didn't mesh up with what he knew, what he'd seen with his very own eyes.

Laura's cagey words from early in the evening came back to him.

* * *

" _ **Sometimes people have every reason to believe something happened, even though it never actually came to pass."**_

* * *

He dwelled for hours on everything it was he'd learned, from Harry, from Linda and from the efficient, if nervous, Ms. Krebs. A pot of fresh coffee was made as he continued his vigil, continued to mull. Long after the sun rose, he roused Harry enough to help the still drunk man inside to the couch, where he curled up facing the back, losing consciousness quickly.

Once the lad woke, there was a conversation to be had.

But first, he had a few questions for the chatty Ms. Krebs. A glance at the clock confirmed it was shortly after ten-thirty in Los Angeles, the time the woman had specified she'd be home after a night out with the Dragon Ladies. Picking up the portable phone, he dialed the number Mildred had willing offered up, lest he need to speak to her outside of business hours. Sitting down in a nearby chair, his eyes upon Harry should he stir, he waited impatiently as the phone on the other end rang.

"Krebs, here," Mildred answered.

"Good evening, Ms. Krebs. I have a question or two you, if you don't mind…"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Laura dragged herself, wearily, through the front door of her loft, dropping her bags inside the door, then shutting and locking it. She'd been traveling for nearly twenty-two hours since she'd left Cannes. In her eagerness to get home, to get away from _him_ , she'd selected the first flight out of London. As it turned out, it hadn't been a wise choice as an eleven hour flight had morphed into nineteen hours with three separate layovers in three separate cities. Thus, it was shortly after six-thirty in the afternoon, LA time, when she'd finally made it home.

She shed her clothes, dropping them to the floor in a trail on the way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she emerged, one towel swaddling her hair, and another wrapped around her trim form. In the kitchen, she set a kettle of water onto the stove to boil, then picked up her discarded clothing on the way to her bedroom, shoving it into a hamper there. With no plans to go anywhere that evening, she pulled on a pair of pajamas, then wrapped herself in a robe. Towels were hung up in the bathroom, her hair brushed out and left to air dry, and a whistling kettle was answered. It was with great relief that she finally settled into the corner of the couch, cup of tea in hand. She prayed, vehemently, that the hot liquid would sooth the queasiness that had been haunting her for the last twelve hours of her travels.

Her eyes traveled around her empty loft.

This was not how she'd pictured her homecoming, although she was unsure why she had pictured it otherwise. To have presumed she'd be able to get the man to listen to her had been… audacious… even though, in the past, he'd always allowed her an opportunity to explain, to make things right. But this hadn't been just _any_ argument.

She'd known. Somewhere in the back of her head, she'd known in his mind she'd committed the unforgiveable. He'd waited her out for years, and she'd left him for another man. She had hoped to find a way to get through to him, to make him understand. She did, after all, hold an ace in her pocket: She'd never carried through with her plans with Westfield, because of _him._

But he'd never given her the opportunity to explain. His abandonment issues ran as deeply as her own, and he was just as talented at shutting her out, as she was he, when the need arised. Would she have been able to forgive him had he done the same after those weeks where they'd spent every moment together… happily at that? With a sigh, she admitted she wouldn't have. It would have hit far too close to home: Her father, Wilson. Even if he'd come back, never having carried through, the trust she'd fought so hard to have in him would have been irrevocably destroyed.

And had that proverbial shoe been on the other foot, would she have fought to keep _him?_ That one took more thought, but the answer was again 'no.' At least not in the manner she'd suggested to him. She would have felt too betrayed, too angry, too hurt… too everything. Her pride would never allowed her to go after him, to ask him to stay.

Still, none of that mattered now. First he'd left, then he'd ordered her gone. Using his favored movie jargon…

It was a wrap.

Now, it was time to look ahead.

She'd need a story for Mildred, as to why the beloved 'Boss' wasn't returning. The property agent at the Rossmore would have to be notified that once the lease expired in September, it wouldn't be renewed. Arrangements would have to be made to empty the apartment, the contents donated to the Lost Souls Mission where they might help someone just getting back on their feet again.

She need to make an appointment with her doctor, now that the decision had been made to keep the baby. According to the book she'd purchased, there were routine tests run at the beginning of a pregnancy and prenatal vitamins to be prescribed. If she was going on all in, then she wanted to assure the baby had the best possible care.

 _A baby._ She blew out a sharp breath.

Her eyes looked around the loft with a pang of regret. She loved the home she'd built out of nothing more than an empty warehouse space. From wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling the design had been all her own. A place that had once been cold, now exuded warmth from every corner. The copious number of windows, allowed sunlight to flood the space most of the day. The gleaming, state-of-the art kitchen, in which only _he'd_ ever cooked. Her raised bedroom separated from the main living room by a brass railing; the brick accent walls; the rich wood floors… all of it her own inspiration. The cheery furniture, the host of potted plants, the knick knacks and accents all infusing a welcoming aura to the space.

She loved it all. It had become her home over the last two years, but it simply wasn't the right place in which to raise a baby. The baby would need a nursery, to start, and, in later years, a yard in which to play… not to mention space to store all the furnishings and accessories an infant seemed to require. As depressing as the thought was, there was only logical solution: she'd have to put the loft on the market and buy a house. Tomorrow seemed as good a time as any, at least for the former.

Two more daunting tasks among so many. She needed to devise a plausible explanation for 'Remington Steele's' departure from the Agency, one that wouldn't chase off current and potential clients. She'd need to find a new partner, a seasoned one, as there was no time to train someone. She'd need to sell the Auburn.

 _God, he loved the Auburn_ , she lamented, then shook off both thought and emotion.

She'd have to put in extra hours over the next months, in order to fatten the coffers in preparation for maternity leave. Working or not, there were certain fiscal responsibilities that had to be met: The Agency's bills; Mildred, Fred and a new partner's salaries to be paid; and, of course, she'd need to pay her on bills, as well.

Daycare. She'd need to visit daycares in the months to come, so the perfect place was waiting in the wings when the baby was born.

Her head swam with all there was to do. Thankfully, one thing she didn't have to do… yet… was to announce her status to her Mother and Frances. Living in Connecticut, as they did, bought her some time…

And she was by no means ready to deal with the fallout when she made the announcement. She cringed, already able to hear her Mother's recriminations and 'How could you embarrass your family like this, Laura's'.

 _Oh, God._

Tucking that thought away safely in the back of her mind, she set her nearly empty cup of tea down on the coffee table and slowly rose. After retrieving a garbage bag from the kitchen, she gathered the items she'd brought home from his apartment, that first night when she'd found him gone.

She sat down, heavily, at the end of her bed and drew his pillow up to her face. His scent flooded her senses, set her heart pounding. The pillow dropped to her lap and she covered her face with her hands.

She knew she needed to let him go, but didn't know how…


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Remington blinked open a single, bloodshot eye, then groaned as a red hot poker plunged through his head. If not for the bladder screaming for release, he'd have burrowed his head under the pillow and returned to sleep. As it was, he pushed himself up from the couch and made his wobbly way towards the stairs, then his room. A relieved bladder and a hot shower did little to improve matters. Visine in both eyes at least stopped the sensation of a sandstorm on their surface, and a couple rounds with the mouthwash, left him still smelling like alcohol, but at least it was of the minty variety. He glanced at his razor then shook his head, fairly certain he'd be able to hear each stubble of hair that was cut as a resounding symphony in his head. As he pulled a comb through his hair and dressed, he debated which cure would be most expedient: A handful of aspirin or a glass full of the hair of the dog that had bit him.

As it happened, he needn't have worried over the remedy.

"Ah, I always said you were a good man, Daniel," Remington told him gratefully, when Daniel handed him a tall glass of cool, red liquid. He took a long pull of the drink as he sat down on the couch where he'd been sleeping. Wetting his parched lips with the tip of his tongue, he looked at his wrist. _Well, that bloody well can't be correct._ "Happen to know the time?" Daniel lifted his watch and glanced at the face.

"I show five-thirty-eight." Remington's brow furrowed. He'd lost most of an entire day, and he still needed to slog across Cannes to meet with an old associate whose specialty was passport forgery. "Damn," he muttered aloud, then guzzled down the remainder of the drink and set the glass on a coaster awaiting him on the table.

"Head reminding you of the perils of drinking to excess?" Daniel inquired. Remington leaned back and rested his head against the back of the couch. Looking ceilingward, he scrubbed at his face with his hands.

"Ohhh," he half hummed, half moaned, the sound conveying his head was certainly bothering him, "I'd planned to stop 'round Jean Pierre's hours ago," he laughed then grimaced, as someone played a pair of drumsticks on his head. The comment piqued Daniel's interest and he raised his brows, as he swirled the ice in his water around in his glass.

"I wasn't aware you were in the market for a new passport." Remington nodded, his face still pointed to the ceiling.

"Mmmmm," he hummed in answer. "Seems a new one is in order." Daniel nodded pensively, swirling that ice again.

"Tell me, Harry, have I ever shared with you the tale of the most exquisite woman to ever grace my life?" Remington drew in a breath and let it out slowly. He wasn't particularly in the mood to hear the story of one of Daniel's romantic escapades, which inevitably involved separating said woman from something it was Daniel wanted: A piece of art… a jewel… a hefty chunk of her savings. But he respected the man enough not to be so insulting as to say so.

"A member of the Polynesian royal family wasn't she?" he inquired, pulling from his memory a story Daniel had told on more than one occasion. Daniel chuckled.

"Mmmmm. I've many a fond memory of that one, but no," he answered. Turning somber, he focused on the ice floating in his cup, as though it might hold the absolution he'd craved for more than three decades. "Her name was Neve, and from the moment I first laid my eyes upon her, I was …" he waved a hand toward the air "…bewitched." Lost in his memories, he stood and walked into the kitchn. "Oh, she led me on a merry chase, she did. Although she came from a family of modest means, she'd been raised to be a proper young lady, and from the first, she'd labeled me the miscreant that I was."

Remington dropped his hands down, and took the glass of ice water Daniel offered to him.

"Drink," Daniel instructed, before continuing. "For near on a month I found occasion to dine each day, sometimes twice," he laughed softly, "At the small restaurant where she worked. Dozens of times, I invited her on date, but each time she refused. Much like your Linda, she'd settle for no less than a man of character, who earned an honest living. By the end of that first month, I knew I'd do whatever it took to have her for myself. I committed to leaving the life behind, to trodding the straight and narrow. I found myself a nice little, honest job, working in a bank…"

Remington barked a laugh, then groaned and rubbed at his head. Daniel smiled in the direction of his protégé, although the smile didn't reach his strained eyes.

"Surprised?"

"A touch," Remington admitted. Daniel lifted a brow at the younger man.

"You know bank robbery is not found amongst my resume. Much too pedestrian for my tastes, all brute force, little finesse." Remington hummed his agreement.

"You were saying?" he prompted, lifting the glass of water to his lips.

"We were married by the end of that Spring." Remington choked on his water, and looked at Daniel, agog. Daniel continued on, seeming not to notice. "I was too young…" he paused, then added thoughtfully as an aside, "Your age now…. I was too young, to foolish to seize what might so easily have been mine. I made a decent wage at the bank, not much to brag about but enough so that Neve no longer needed to work." He tilted his head and nodded absently. "I'd put back a bit of a nut while living The Life, but before our child arrived I'd hoped to put back considerably more." Remington's face contorted in disbelief. _Daniel has a child?!_ "I wanted Neve, our child to have the world. I hadn't realized, as Neve long ago had, that we'd already had the world in our hand, just in having each other. I tried to pull off the most… wildly… ambitious caper of my career and went to prison, instead. I wrote Neve every day, never once receiving a letter in return. By the time I was released from prison, I'd had nearly two years to think of all I'd lost in a moment of foolishness and was determined to somehow win her back…" Daniel's world trailed off as he relived that long ago day.

"Daniel?" Remington softly nudged. Daniel startled, then ambling towards the doors to the balcony began speaking again.

"The day I was released, I rushed home, fully prepared to do whatever it took to earn back the trust and love I'd once so carelessly thrown away, only to discover she'd long ago left." Stilling, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes against the memories. "The humiliation of having a husband in prison had been too much for her to bear. Unable to bring herself to face her family, she disappeared into the night, telling no one of where she'd gone. Devastated, I wandered around for several years…aimlessly, really," he added with a shrug, his feet on the move again, "Pulling off jobs here-and-there, yet still not fully committed to my return to The Life. But after a few years, I found I was desperate to find my family. I searched for nearly a dozen years, then spent the decade and a half after that regretting every moment I'd lost. After all, even I can't cheat death." Remington rubbed at his face, then dropping his hands, stared at his mentor, stunned.

"How is it you've never told me this before? It's been nearly twenty years, Daniel…"

"Finding you, my boy, plucking you from the streets, giving you a life to aspire to – unconventional as it might have been – is the one truly honorable thing I have ever done," Daniel shared. "I only wish for you to be happy, and I deeply fear history is about to repeat itself. I don't want you living with a lifetime of regrets, as I have." Remington lurched to his feet, his face turning hard.

"Laura is not up for discussion," he ground out, pointing his finger at his mentor. With a disgusted shake of his head he began striding for the doorway of the room.

"She loves you, Harry," Daniel protested.

"I wasn't enough for her, Daniel," Remington retorted, voice rising. "No matter how much I changed, no matter how long I stayed, it wasn't enough for her!"

"Her deeds say otherwise," Daniel countered. "She came for you, same as she's always done."

"She came to find a father for her child, not me!" Remington roared.

"And if that child is yours?" Daniel posed the question. "If you turn your back on your child, my boy, you'll never be able to find it within to forgive yourself." Remington's chest rose and fell harshly with emotion, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"It's not," he responded, adamantly.

"Given what I've learned, I think you may well be wrong in that," Daniel argued, equally as passionately, "Can you honestly believe that the uptight, morally superior woman with her tedious list of rules, codes, and demands is, in actuality, nothing more than a scheming tart who somehow managed to convince _you_ , these last years, that she was a paragon of virtue? Your instincts are better than that, Harry!" Remington puffed and stared at Daniel for several long seconds, then clenching his jaw, stubbornly, took three strides into the short hallway, and plucked the keys to the Porsche off the credenza.

"Forgive me, Daniel, but I've business to attend to," he announced, briskly.

Daniel watched as Remington strode out the front door then closed it behind him with a resounding slam. With a shake of his head, he retired to kitchen. Another night dining in, it would seem, as he couldn't trust Harry wouldn't pack bag and baggage then disappear should he not find Daniel awaiting his return.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Remington's stay at Jean Pierre's had been brief. A quick photo, a name supplied and the rest was up to the forger. That name had been a challenge. At first, he thought he might go with a lesser known role of Bogart's, to keep the tradition going as it were. He'd discarded the idea, as it wouldn't be beyond Laura to search each and every character Bogart had ever played. Cary Grant then. No, given his use of John Robie when last they'd been in Cannes, Grant was sure to come to her mind. Nick Charles perhaps? That, too, had gone by the wayside, given the poster of _The Thin Man_ that had hung in his living room for the last three years.

It had finally come to him. The one name Laura would never think to look for: Remington Steele.

Now, he needed only to cool his heels for a few hours until the document was ready. He'd considered stopping 'round the Lebret's for a quick visit, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. Henri and Joelle would inevitably bring up Laura, and it was a discussion he'd no interest in having.

In fact, if he had his way about it, he'd prefer not to think about her at all.

An impossibility, he'd finally owned. He'd walked the streets of Cannes for nearly two hours before he'd conceded defeat and allowed his feet to carry him to the very terrace on which she'd ended their personal relationship when last they were here. Bracing his arms against a low-slung wall, he stared, blindly, out over the water.

* * *

 _ **"Can you honestly believe that the uptight, morally superior woman with her tedious list of rules, codes, and demands is, in actuality, nothing more than a scheming tart who somehow managed to convince**_ _ **you**_ _ **, these last years, that she was a paragon of virtue?"**_

* * *

Daniel's words had been rattling about in his mind since he'd stormed out of the house, no matter how many times he'd tried to cast them aside.

He'd never, for an instant, believed Laura to be a 'scheming tart'. Not that. Harsh, demanding, indecisive, riddled with fears and insecurities – each of those things she definitely was. But as sure as he was of each of those things, he was equally certain she'd not been simply leading him on.

What they'd had with one another had been the most… real… _anything_ he'd ever known in the entirety of his life. They'd been attracted to one another from the start, that there was no denying, but it had been the underlying _honest_ emotion that had led them step in close then back away, time-and-time again. Those emotions had inspired hope, had incited fear.

He'd found a peace he'd never known with her. She'd given his life a purpose far beyond the next woman he'd bed, heist he'd orchestrate, party he'd attend. He'd found his calling.

He'd found his home. Not in LA. Not in the Rossmore flat. His home, he'd come to realize, was her.

Lifting his hands, he scrubbed at his face, noting, as he dropped his hands, that he'd garnered the interest of a tall, curvy brunette. She shifted slightly, where she stood, to give him a better view – should he wish to partake - of her ample bust, the sides of the creamy orbs on full display in her low cut, sequined dress. Her eyes roamed his body, pausing where no lady's would, before giving him an approving and welcoming look.

He was thoroughly disinterested. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he vacated the hotel terrace to walk the streets below.

When she'd ended them the last time, here in Cannes, he'd known it was coming. She'd used her tried and tired old adage of 'business and pleasure don't mix' as the reasoning behind her decision, but he'd known damned well that wasn't the reason. She'd been bloody well pissed with him, deservedly so, in many ways. Waiting for the axe to fall had been torture, as he'd watched her putting more and more distance between them, both in head and heart, as each minute ticked by. Then, he'd wished for a quick and merciful end, thinking it would have been far less painful.

How bloody wrong he'd been. This time around, he'd been positively blindsided.

My God, those days they'd been stranded in the cabin had been a piece of Utopia and the weeks afterwards nothing but sheer bliss. Yes, there'd been a bit of tension between them for a short spell, but he hadn't seen it coming until he'd handed her that cup of tea. Fast, but far from merciful. This time, he'd wished he'd had the time to see it coming, that it had been expected. Maybe then it wouldn't have taken him to his knees.

He'd never forget the vision of her face as she'd justified her reasoning. She'd refused to maintain eye contact with him, her face completely blank.

 _The Stepford Wives,_ Katharine Ross, Paula Prentiss, Peter Masterson, Palomar Pictures, 1975.

Her expression had reminded him a Stepford Wive, completely devoid of emotion, as if all their time together had meant nothing to her. His lip thinned and his brows drew together. No, that wasn't quite right. It was as if she'd completely checked out of her emotions. There had been nothing: No anger, no regret… nothing. Just a pair of empty eyes.

He wasn't sure why he found that thought so bothersome now… Maybe for no other reason than it had been the antithesis of last evening, when her tears had flowed and her emotions had been raw. So raw, that she'd been reduced to babbling at one point.

* * *

 _ **"I don't know what I thought it would be like... I don't know that I ever thought about it at all, as a matter of fact, given… Whatever I thought, I hadn't expected… We were spending all our time together… you were saying things like… that…but still hadn't told… I didn't know… I was so… happy… out of control… terrified…"**_

* * *

And he'd been any less terrified? Any less confused? There hadn't been times when every instinct had screamed at him to disappear into the misty night, as she'd once always feared he'd do?

But he hadn't caved. He'd stayed, unwilling to lose a single moment with her.

Whereas she'd left him for the first bloke to come along, one that looked better on paper than he.

In that one act, she'd confirmed what a part of him had always feared to be true: Providence would never permit him what most all else were entitled to merely by being born. Someone that loved him without condition, who looked at him and saw him as worthy. A home. A family. All those things denied him since his birth. All those things he'd never wanted to admit to craving.

He'd begun to believe he might have it all with her.

He snorted a laugh of derision, his fury beginning to swirl in his belly again as he recalled her accusation the evening before.

* * *

" _ **You left! I came back and you were gone!"**_

* * *

My God, had she really believed he'd so little pride that he would stay in LA and await her return from her lover's tryst? To what end? To partner with her by day, then watch her go home to another man each night?! How could she not know he wouldn't have it in him to do that and _why_?

* * *

 **"When have you** _ **ever**_ **fought for me?"**

* * *

When had he fought for her!? What did she think he'd _been doing_ all these years if not fighting for her? He changed, he'd stayed, he been her tireless partner, putting his neck on the line again-and-again. He'd helped her build the Agency into an internationally recognized entity. He'd waited out all her insecurities and fears for years. He'd waited _for her_ during those lonely, anxious months after their last trip to Cannes, wondering if another bloke might get his foot in the door before she'd forgive him, allow him another chance to get it right.

He'd fought until that night when _she_ 'd left, when _she'd_ make it clear there was nothing left to fight for!

* * *

"… **Whatever it was I'd** _ **thought**_ **we had together was not meaningful enough** _ **to**_ _ **you**_ **to sacrifice your pride for… Yet, here I am, just as I was that night, sacrificing** _ **my pride**_ **,** **by coming here…"**

* * *

 _Meaningful enough to him?!_ He'd been thinking of making a permanent commitment to her, and it hadn't been meaningful enough _to him?!_ _He_ hadn't disappeared into the night as she'd always feared. _He_ hadn't left her for another woman. _Not meaningful enough?!_ She'd meant enough to him that he'd even taken the time to restore her license before departing.

But she'd been correct about one thing: He wasn't willing to sacrifice any more of his pride than he already had.

He laughed a dry laugh of disbelief.

As if he had, it would have mattered. Once Laura Holt made up her mind about _anything_ there was no changing it. Lord knew he'd learned that lesson over the years.

Sacrificing her pride?! In her infamous words: "HA!" How much pride could it have it taken that night to come to _his_ flat, to destroy _his_ dreams, to take him to _his—_

His steps stuttered to a halt, as somewhere in the back of his mind he realized something wasn't quite right. His heart began to thrum, fast and hard; his pulse began to race as he searched his memory for all that she'd said the evening before.

* * *

 _ **"You're damned right I do. You bloody well left my bed to climb into another man's!"**_

 _ **"And you screwed Felicia tonight to spite me! So even if I had, it would seem to me that the playing field's been leveled."**_

* * *

" _ **You left! I came back and you were gone!"**_

* * *

" _ **Yet, here I am, just as I was that night…"**_

* * *

 _Oh, God._

Could she have…

Was it possible...

He turned on his heel and strode with purpose back towards the hotel and Daniel's car.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Daniel!" Remington called out, as he stepped through the front door of Daniel's villa and closed it behind him. With purposeful strides, he ate up the ground between that door and the living area. "Dan—" He stopped in the middle of the word when he found Daniel sitting in a chair, casually swirling the ice in his glass of scotch.

"Harry!" Daniel feigned surprise. "Whatever are you doing back so early? I'd thought you'd be on the prowl until dawn."

"What is it Laura said to you?" Remington demanded without preamble. Daniel stared into his drink while pretending to mull the question, while Remington shifted restlessly on his feet. Just as his patience was wearing thin, Daniel looked up.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, my boy, but wasn't it you who decreed the subject of Linda to be off-limits?"

" _Daniel…"_ Remington drew out his name in warning. Daniel got to his feet and headed to the bar to splash another finger of scotch in his glass.

"Oh, you know how Linda is, Harry," Daniel answered, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She's no more prone to revealing her innermost thoughts than you are. The best I was able to get from her was a rather… titillating… comment." He fell silent after delivering that tidbit. You couldn't blame a man for having a bit of fun, given the boy's earlier rudeness, now could you? Apparently, that boy could, as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned a pair of strained blue eyes on his mentor.

"Daniel," he repeated the man's name, wearily. Daniel decided to show him a bit of mercy.

"When I asked if there might be a reason for you to believe the two of you had… parted ways…" he paused, feigned forgetfulness. Well, he had said a bit of mercy, not absolution.

"Which was?" Remington pressed on a frustrated sigh.

"Give me a moment," his brows knit together, then raised, as though just recalling, "Ah, yes. How foolish of me to have forgotten. I believe her precise words were 'Sometimes people have every reason to believe something happened, even though it never actually came to pass.'"

Remington swayed on his feet, then lowered himself onto the couch.

She hadn't gone. Sometime after she'd left his flat, she'd changed her mind and hadn't gone.

"How did you know the babe is mine?" he asked in a strangled voice. Daniel lifted an smug brow at him.

"Even I'm capable of simple math, my boy," he answered in an air that suggested he'd been slighted by the question. "It was easy enough to gather from your drunken ramblings last night that it's been a bit more than a month since you…. parted ways, so to speak. Yet Linda said there was only ten days in which to make a decision. Given Linda's need to plan every second of her life, it would be my guess she is nine, perhaps ten weeks a—" His words broke off when Remington leaped to his feet and strode through the room in the direction of the stairs. "Was it something I said?" he called after the younger man.

With a satisfied grin, Daniel sat down to await Remington's reappearance. No doubt the lad was on the phone already making reservations to return to LA.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Remington pulled the Auburn up to the curb in front of Laura's building and glanced up at the windows to her loft. He hadn't, of course, expected to see any lights on given it was only a few minutes past three… A.M. … here in LA. The sign in the window announcing 'For Sale by Owner' was, however, unexpected.

For once, providence had been kind to him. There had been availability on the last flight out of Cannes to Paris. He'd have a scant thirty minutes to disembark, trek across Charles De Gaulle, and board the flight to Los Angeles, but it was doable. That he was willing to endure a nearly eleven hour flight in coach… Well, that should stand as a testament as to how important it was for him to get home to Laura.

He'd stopped at the Rossmore only long enough to toss his bags through the front door and to retrieve the keys to the Auburn. Thankfully, it appeared his flat and the Auburn had not yet made it to the top of Laura's list, as the loft obviously had.

He'd considered waiting until a decent hour of the morning, then arriving at her front door with breakfast and coffee, but he positively dreaded the awkwardness, the tension that would bring. And, of course, there was every possibility after the things he said and done that she'd simply yell through the door that he should call Mildred and make an appointment.

 _That_ he couldn't do.

He needed to know. He needed to hear the words from her lips. He might well go mad if he had to wait days to confirm his suspicions. And should her word bear out what he'd come to believe? Then he could begin making amends for the grievances he'd visited upon her.

But, he wore his own battle scars that would require care… and time… to heal. Whether or not she'd carried through on her plans, there had been plans made. A part of him knew he'd never quite look at her the same. He'd thought her infallible, intractable, in her honesty and she'd proven even she could fall to human frailty. She'd proven, too, that he still didn't measure up in her eyes. Because of her insecurities or some shortcoming of his own? Well, that would take some time and thought to work out. And what if it couldn't be? He liked the man he was now, had worked damned hard to become this man. He wasn't sure he was willing to change that much more to try to live up to whatever standard it was she'd created in her mind.

And if his suspicions were wrong and she had gone away with the bloke, could they find their way past it?

* * *

 _ **"And you screwed Felicia tonight to spite me! So even if I had, it would seem to me that the playing field's been leveled."**_

* * *

If only it were so easy at that, he sighed. Yes, being a petulant prig, he'd shagged Felicia. It had been a bit, a very small bit, of tit-for-tat in his mind... an image for her to live with much as he'd had to live the prior thirty-six days with visions of another man touching her, holding her haunting him. But he hadn't left her for Felicia, had never – not once – in their association, ended them, as she had twice now. Would he be able to forgive her, more importantly, learn to forget, to trust her again? The frightening part was, he didn't know. The gods above knew he loved her, but would that be enough?

The only thing he knew with absolute certainty was the child she was carrying was his own. That, alone, was a terrifying concept, and how it had come to pass another discussion altogether. But it was one thing to daydream in the abstract about one day having a family with Laura, and quite another for it to be a reality that would arrive very, very soon.

With a long, cleansing breath drawn in then released, he climbed out of the Auburn.

With the stealth learned during his days on the other side of the street, Remington slipped invisibly through the alley, then negotiated his silent ascent up the fire escape. Jimmying the ancient lock on the window above her kitchen sink had taken a mere pittance of his skill, as did tucking his lanky frame through the opening formed. On catlike feet, he stole across the loft and the short flight of stairs to Laura's bedroom. His heart clenched at the sight of her curled up on her side, a Kleenex still lying in the palm of a hand, the trail where tears had coursed over her cheeks still visible.

 _Laura…_

He resisted the urge to sit on the edge of the bed and wake her with a brush of the back of his fingers against her cheek. He removed the tissue from her hand, noting with another pang in his heart, that she slept wearing one of his shirts, her head resting on one of the pillows from his flat. How long had she been sleeping thus? Since he left? Guilt delivered another whopping kick to his shin. With no little regret, he pulled the comforter up and over her shoulders, then went back downstairs where he settled down on the couch to wait until she awakened.

* * *

Laura's eyes fluttered open in the grainy, pre-dawn light as she muttered a silent oath of discontent. If already she couldn't make it until the alarm rang without having to wake to pee, what would it be like two, three months from now? Or, God forbid, during the last months of her pregnancy. With a frustrated puff of air, she acknowledged she had many months of interrupted sleep ahead.

Tossing back the comforter, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her robe. She stilled when she stood, her keen eyes immediately drawn to the shadowy figure on her couch. There was no rush of adrenaline, no sudden need to take flight. Instead, her heart beat, wildly, at seeing that familiar, thick head of sable hair. She closed her eyes, found her center, then cinched close the sash on her robe. Without a word, she descended the stairs, closing the bathroom door quietly behind her. She emerged minutes later, hair and teeth brushed, face washed, and made a beeline for the kitchen.

If they were going to do this here and now, she'd need coffee to see her through.

He'd vowed to remain silent until she indicated she was ready to speak. He'd known the minute she'd awakened, had heard the rustle of the sheets when she'd sat up, had felt the moment her eyes had found him. But despite that vow, as she passed behind where he sat on the couch, the words bubbled, painfully and uncontrolled, past his lips.

"Did you go?" Her gait paused for a split second, then she continued towards the kitchen.

"No… I didn't," she answered, quietly.

"Why?" he rasped.

"Don't you know?" she snapped, regretting immediately both her answer and her tone. After punching the 'brew' button on the coffee maker, she closed her eyes, forced her breathing to slow, acknowledged if she wished, on any level, for them to repair the damage they'd both wrought on their relationship that now was not the time for deflection or anger. "Because of you," she admitted, the words spoken so softly he'd barely heard them.

But heard them, he had, and a rush of profound regret rocked him to the core. Dropping his face into his hands, he shook his head rapidly, then swallowed hard as he drew his hands through his hair.

"Why, Laura? Just tell me why." She let out a sigh, did some head shaking of her own. Pressing her palms against the counter, she couldn't make herself turn to face him and spoke to the wall instead.

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "I was angry with you, with myself… confused… unsure of where I stood… overwhelmed…" she puffed out a breath "…Afraid." She lifted a hand and dropped it resignedly. "I don't know what to say." Silence lingered as she poured them each a cup of coffee, adding a dollop of cream to his, as he preferred. In the living room, she handed him his mug, then curled up on the opposite corner of the couch.

"What do you want, Laura?" he dared to venture. Staring into her coffee cup, she mulled the question.

"That's a complicated question," she admitted. "I knew what I wanted when I returned to your apartment that night. I know what I hoped for three days ago…"

"And now?" he prompted when she fell silent.

A pair of troubled brown eyes met his, then flitted away.

"And now, I don't know."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Laura, I'm sorry," Remington apologized, with a heartfelt plea.

"I know you are," she answered, somberly. "As am I. But…."

"But what," he prodded, anxiously, when she stopped speaking. Taking a sip of her coffee, she looked at him over the rim of her mug. With a sigh, she shook her head.

"It doesn't change what's happened or where we are now," she answered, as she lowered the mug. He swallowed hard, the words carrying an ominous ring that left his pulse racing.

"Which is?" She raised and dropped a hand, emphasizing her own confusion.

"We've hurt one another… badly... _intentionally_ ," she retorted, her emotions getting the better of her for a minute. "Do you honestly believe we can just set that aside?"

"Set aside? No, I don't," he answered, forthrightly. Then added passionately, "Do I believe the years we've spent together, what we had together before all this began, should be given its proper weight? Yes, I do." She snorted her disbelief.

"An argument could be made that those years together are a testament as to why this won't work!" she contradicted, as she set her mug on the table, her feet itching to do some pacing of their own. "Years of your past, my past, _your_ inability to make a commitment, _my_ inability to trust that I wouldn't wake up one day and _find you gone_! And where did it get us?"

"We were happy, _Laura_!" he decried, adamantly. "Until whatever it was that got into that head of yours and…" he growled in frustration, while gesticulating with his hands. "I know bloody well they were some of the best days of my life! Did I imagine it was the same for you?" She deflated, visibly at the demand she be honest. Averting her head, she took a sudden interest in examining her nail beds. He stood, wounded eyes upon her, breathing hard, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other rubbing at his face as he waited her out.

"You didn't imagine it," she admitted quietly. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding while nodding his head in relief. His relief was short lived as she recovered her verve. Reaching for her coffee, she took a sip then faced him, holding the mug in both hands. "But, again, I don't know that it matters whether or not we were happy, not after all that's happened. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'll always wonder when you say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing if _this_ will be the time I walk out again! Can you deny that?" He drew a hand through his hair, the question perhaps the easiest she had asked on the evening.

"Laura, I've spent three years wondering each time I misstepped, each time a ploy went awry, if this was the time you'd walk away," he answered. "It's not as though you haven't set a precedent for exactly that previously. If you mean will I wonder if you'll leave me for another man? Again, no more than I've worried about in the past when someone with a better pedigree than I comes sniffing about." _That_ caught her by surprise and she gave him an affronted look.

"I don't care about your _pedigree_ ," she refuted, spitting out the last words as though it left a foul taste in her mouth. "Why would you even _think_ that?" she asked, appalled. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his face away from her.

"Do you think I don't know you deserve better than the likes of me?" he asked. "If I were a better man, I'd walk away, but…" His shoulders slumped as he left the thought incomplete. Her observant eyes noted his distress. Setting her mug on the coffee table, she stood and went to him. Lying a flattened palm against his chest, she tilted her head at him. His eyes jerked to her then back away, as he lifted a hand to worry a nail.

"But what?" she asked softly. He shifted uncomfortably, then swallowing hard, forced the admission past his lips.

"I want you for myself too badly…" With a slow shake of his head, he laughed low and wryly, "…Have from the very start." She nodded her head, her expression sobering, eyes narrowing.

"Why?" she pressed. The question finally drew his eyes to her. He'd known. Before he'd ever stepped foot on the plane bound for Paris, he'd known if they were to try to move past all that had happened, she'd require the whole of it. Reaching out, he lay a palm gently against her cheek..

"Don't you know?" he asked quietly. A pair of wary yet hopeful, brown eyes stared up at him, as she remained resolutely quiet. His thumb caressed her cheek as he continued, "I abandoned my pursuit of the Royal Lavulite in hopes of what we might have. I stayed because I fell in love with you. I'm here now because I love you so damned much I can no longer envision a life without you by my side, at least not a fulfilling one." Moist brown eyes regarded him soberly, before she dropped her forehead to rest against his chest.

"I can't either," she confessed in an almost wistful tone. She slipped away as he moved to embrace her. Her words had given him hope they'd find their way through, but her next words jeopardized it all. She stilled near the kitchen counter, back to him, and lifted a pair of fingers to her brow. "But I don't know if that matters any longer, not if means wondering every day if the next is the day I'll wake and find you gone." He gave pursuit, cupping her shoulders then stepping in close.

"This is where I wish to be, Laura," he quietly insisted. She wriggled free of his grasp, put distance between them. Facing him, her chin tipped upwards, her eyes turned cool.

"I had finally believed that was true," she gave him a single, defiant nod, "And then I found your apartment empty and you _gone!_ " He turned in her direction, rubbing at his face in exasperation.

"Because I didn't have it me to watch you with another man!" She crossed her arms, her chin moving up another notch, as her eyes flashed fire

"And I had it in me to watch you with Felicia?!" she countered. "Well, I didn't! But I stayed to fight, while _you_ just _walked away_!"

"And I came back to fight for you, on no more than a suspicion, _a hope_ , that you wanted this as much as I!" he pointed out, vehemently. He forced himself to take several deep breaths, to calm, before he approached her. Lifting his hands to grasp her shoulders again, he thought better of it and shoved them into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. "I was a buggering fool, Laura," he apologized gruffly. "I wanted you to feel just a bit of what I had these last weeks. One bloody nightmare after the next, envisioning you with…" He stopped with a shudder, the mere image still having the power to make his stomach clench, his heart crack. "If I could turn back time, believe me, there are any number of things I would have done differently." Dropping her fingers from her brow, she seemed to deflate before his eyes.

"Me too," she admitted quietly after a pause. He dared to step in close, to cup her shoulders in his hands again. "Do you want me, here, to share your life with you, Laura?" She sagged slightly under the weight of the question, leaning so lightly against him the pressure was no more a whisper against his chest. Closing her eyes, she ignored all the logical reasons that popped into her mind and listened to her heart. The time was here, she knew. If she walked away now, there would be no more second chances, as his heart… and his pride… wouldn't allow it. But if she wanted him… _them_ … then only absolute honesty would suffice.

"Wanting you, _loving you_ , has never been the problem," she finally answered. His fingers flexed against her shoulders at the admission and she felt it when his breathing came hard, and he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. They weren't precisely the words he'd given her, but they'd been enough to heal part of the fissure in his heart. "It'll take time," she warned. A hand stroked down hers, than took her hand and eased her around. A pair of earned blue eyes greeted her weary brown ones.

"I'm not going anywhere, Laura," he vowed, then drew her into his arms. "Take all the time you need."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

After Laura's concession, she'd sent Remington back to his flat to get some sleep, feeling oddly embarrassed and understandably tired after their conversation given the hour it had taken place. Still not recovered from her lengthy trip home, or the accompanying jet lag, she only wanted to tumble into bed to catch a few more hours sleep. She'd made a final concession before he'd left: She would dine with him at his flat that evening. Neither were so foolish as to pretend there wasn't still another very important topic to discuss, and both agreed it was better done well-rested.

While she had, indeed, crawled back into bed the instant the loft door closed and she slid the latch into place, sleep had been slow to come. Her hopes, her doubts, her fears swirled around in her head, leaving her unsettled and anxious. That they hadn't even touched on the impending arrival? Well, the thought of how _that_ conversation might go had left her twitching as she stared at the ceiling. When sleep had finally arrived, she'd fallen into an unsettled slumber, tossing and turning until well after noon.

For Remington's part, as much as it was desired, sleep was a non-option, at least for now. He couldn't very well prepare a home cooked meal when the cupboards and the shelves of the refrigerator were bare, and the flat, given the musty smell it had gathered, was in the need of a good cleaning. Then, of course, there were his bags to be unpacked, and laundry to start. By the time he'd completed that to do list, there were filets to marinate, a salad to prep and, for good measure, a triple chocolate layered mousse to make for dessert. It was after two by the time he'd slipped between the sheets of his pillowless bed, mindfully setting the alarm for five so he could shower and dress before Laura arrived. It wouldn't be much of a kip, but it would have to suffice.

By the time the doorbell buzzed, he'd dressed in jeans and oxford, left untucked, his hair still damp from his shower. Taking a deep breath, he plastered what he hoped passed for a welcoming smile on his face and swung open the door.

"Ahhh, Laura, you look lovely," he greeted. "Come in, come in." She gave him a questioning look as she stepped inside? Lovely? She'd dressed casually in a pair of white jeans, a black shell and a pair of black flats, for once uninterested in trying to minimize the difference in their heights. Lovely? How nervous was he?

She discovered exactly how much as he worked in the kitchen. He'd always found solace while rattling his pots and pans. He worked quickly, efficiently, while trying to talk about everything except what had to be discussed. Not that she was all that eager to 'dive right in,' either.

"Back to the office tomorrow morning?" he inquired.

"No. I had Mildred clear the schedule indefinitely not knowing how long I'd be gone," she answered, as she boosted herself up on the counter out of habit. "I'll check in with her tomorrow morning, make sure there's nothing pressing, then have her start scheduling appointment for Wednesday on."

"Two days off?" he asked, peeking up at her through his lashes, as he diced a tomato. "Still jetlagged?" She stroked her throat, amused that he had no idea how closely he was traipsing to the topic they were currently avoiding.

"Yes… but… no," she drew the last word out. "I thought I'd take a couple of days to tackle a few things on my 'to do' list."

"Things?" he questioned as he prepared to drop the steaks in a pan to sear. "Such as selling the loft?"

"Well-done for mine, if you don't mind," she requested. He straightened where he stood and turned to look at her, certain he'd misunderstood. "I'm going to give the sign a month before hiring a broker. From what I understand, the building is in high demand. Bartholomew put up a sign and sold his place in three days."

"Laura, did I hear you correctly?" he wondered, still holding the steak on a fork over the plate in his opposing hand. "Well done?" His face reflected his puzzlement. Laura had always enjoyed her steaks rare, cheating towards the blue side.

"No, you heard correctly," she replied. "If I do sell it on my own I save both—"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, cutting her off. "When did this change occur? I can't count the number of times I've watched you send a cut of beef back to the kitchen because it wasn't prepared to walk off your plate." The corner of her lips tipped upwards and her eyes sparkled with amusement as he once again approached the taboo.

"I read an article recently," she shrugged. "Unless a cut of meat reaches an internal temperature of one-forty-five degrees, you risk contracting E. Coli, toxoplasmosis or even listeria. So…" she lifted a hand and dropped it, "I thought I'd give this a try."

"Run shy on those steamy novels of yours, did you?" He dug through a drawer and came up with a meat thermometer. An overcooked filet lost much of its flavor, so one-hundred-forty five it would be and not a degree more.

"I honestly haven't had much time to sit down and read, running the Agency on my own."

"Been busy, has it?" he asked as he switched his attention from the warming steaks, to the asparagus and potatoes awaiting the oven.

They continued to make small talk while he finished cooking, then halfway through the meal when he made an innocent, but critical error, bringing them face-to-face with the issue.

"The wine doesn't suit your taste this evening?" he wondered, lifting his glass and holding it up. She glanced at her glass, and shook her head.

"It's fine." He indicated her glass with his.

"You haven't touched it," he observed, taking a drink of his wine. Setting her fork down with a roll of her eyes, she leaned back in her chair.

"I can't," she deadpanned. He began to frown, then, his eyes widening in understanding, he set his glass down on the table.

"Time to address the elephant in the room, so to speak?"

"I might choose a different term, but it would seem so," she agreed. "I imagine you have some questions." He wiped his mouth with his napkin then set it aside.

"How about I make us a couple cups of coffee and we get comfortable then, hmmmm?" he suggested with a tilt of his head towards the living room.

Ten minutes later, table cleared and coffee in hand, they settled at opposite ends of the couch. That it was here, in the very spot where he now sat, when weeks before she'd announced they needed some time apart did not serve to steady his nerves. She raised her brows, a silent prodding.

"I know bloody well you were on the pill. I saw you take it faithfully each evening. Have you any idea how? When?" A hand fingered her throat. It was certainly a fair enough question, given she'd had weeks to consider those very questions while he'd only known for days.

"I no more go skiing with my pills than you do condoms," she shrugged a shoulder. "The first night it didn't even occur to me that I hadn't taken one." She laughed softly and slanted her eyes in his direction. "Someone kept me distracted." A grin lit his face. "On the second night when I realized I didn't have them, I still wasn't alarmed. My doctor had always told me just to 'double up' the following two days and all would be fine." She raised her brows and flashed him a rueful look. "the evidence contradicts that statement. As for when? From what I've read, I would say at the cabin or within a day or two afterwards." He nodded his head thoughtfully.

"How long have you known?" She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Suspected and knew are two very different things," she clarified. "I _suspected_ about a week after my cycle was due, but tried to convince myself it was the stress from all that happened which caused my cycle to be late. It wasn't unprecedented." She gesticulated with a hand. "After my father and Wilson left it had happened. By the time I finished the next round of pills, I didn't want to believe it, but I knew. I had other… symptoms… at that point, so I could hardly deny it. I took a home test, then saw the doctor the next day. I left for London right after my appointment."

"Symptoms?" She shifted slightly where she sat. It was one thing, she discovered, to talk about the how's and why's of the pregnancy, but she found she was distinctly uncomfortable discussing the more intimate details given their struggling personal relationship.

"Nothing to be concerned with," she dismissed. He nodded slowly lips, pursed, easily discerning her unease.

"You said there were decisions that had to be made?" he reminded. "Have you decided which way you're leaning?" Back in more comfortable territory, she took a drink of her coffee before answering.

"I have, yes," she nodded. "But the decision is not mine alone to make, and I'd like you to weigh in."

"I suspect I've already decided, as well, unless there is an option I'm unaware of and even then I don't see it changing my thoughts on the matter."

"Fair enough," she conceded. "Should I ask what that is?" It was his turn to shift on the couch as a hand rubbed at the back of his neck. These could be treacherous waters should they be on separate pages.

"I've a bit too much of the Catholic boy in me to consider termination." He swallowed hard. "Is that—" She held up a hand to stop him.

"No. While I support a woman's right to choose," she lifted the hand again and dropped it, then added ruefully, "It turns out I have too much of my mother in my head." He laughed low in his throat.

"Terrifying thought, that," he mused.

"Tell me about it," she groused, then pointed a finger at him. "And don't you dare ever tell her I said so." He held up his hands as though in self-defense.

"Believe me, Laura, my sense of self-preservation is much too refined to even consider it." They shared a brief laugh, before he grew pensive. "If you're leaning towards adoption…" he scrubbed at his face, distressed, "I can't—" She held her hand up, stopping him again.

"I eliminated that from contention immediately," she stepped in, smoothly. "I can no more spend a lifetime wondering if our child was one of the fortunate ones… or not… than you can." He shook his head rapidly with relief.

"So, you've decided…" She blew out a long breath, while giving a slow, still stunned shake of her head.

"To have this baby," she confirmed, setting down her coffee then wrapping her arms around herself and rubbing at them.

"Are you prepared to be a mother?" he ventured.

"No more than you're prepared to be a father, assuming you wish to be involved," she snapped, then immediately grimaced. "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair," she apologized. "No, I'm not," she drew out each of the words. "I've toyed with the idea over the years, but nothing more than that. I'm still not entirely sure I even _want_ to be a mother. But whoever it was," she waved a hand towards the skies, "that orchestrated this little… divine comedy… didn't ask me what I wanted, or if I was ready. So I'll just have to…" the silence stretched before she held up both hands and dropped them "…figure it out." Setting his cup of coffee aside, he stood then, sitting next to her on the couch, reached for her hand.

"We will, Laura," he promised, patting their joined hands, "We'll figure it out." She leaned her head, wearily, against his shoulder.

"Alright, we will."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

On Tuesday morning, Laura watched as Remington paced the room, alternating between rubbing his face and drawing a hand through his hair.

"You don't have to stay," she reminded him. "I'll be alright."

"I know I don't have to stay, I want to," he insisted, stopping next to a tray of instruments. He picked up a pair of forceps, and examined them, bemused. "These could have come in handy during a job or two in the past."

"Mr. Steele," she ground out. His mouth lifted in a crooked grin, and he set the forceps back on a tray before holding up an apologetic hand.

"Sorry, sorry." He picked up the speculum, brows furrowing as he looked it over. "Looks like something used during the medieval days to torture the enemy," he observed.

"And yet is used today to torture women each year during their annual appointments," she note, dryly.

"Oh, for what?"

"Well, it's not to exam a woman's breasts," she drawled. He stared at her trying to compute what it was she was saying, then his eyes slowly traveled downwards. He dropped the speculum as though it had scalded his hands, the other instruments dancing about on the tray when the piece of metal impacted it.

"Tell me you're jesting." She rolled her eyes.

"If only I were." His tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

"Will your doctor be…" His eyes traveled from her to the tray then back to her again.

"I imagine so." She pushed up on her elbows to look at him. "I really will be alright if you' like to—"

"No," he cut her off. "I promised I'd be your side every step of the way, and Remington Steele is nothing if not a man of his word." She flopped back onto the table, holding a palm to her forehead. The fact was, there were certain routine… procedures… she'd rather him _not_ be present for, but had yet to figure out how to say exactly that. She watched as the ultra sound machine captured his attention. When he reached for a switch, she pushed herself up to her elbows again.

"If you keep touching things like a child, you're going to find yourself in time out like one," she warned. A wide grin spread over his face.

"Speaking like a mother already, Laura," he praised. With a growl, she fell back to the table again, then said a silent prayer of thanks when the exam room door opened.

"So, Laura, I hear you've decided you're going to be a mother," the tall, handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair greeted her as he entered the room.

"Seems so," she agreed, as the doctor turned to Remington and held out a hand.

"Adam Lloyd. The father-to-be, I assume?"

"Indeed. Remington Steele," Remington confirmed, exchanging handshakes with the man.

"I thought you looked familiar," Lloyd replied. "The detective that's always in the papers." Laura rolled her eyes, as a smile lit Remington's face, his ego having been stroked.

"Yes, the Agency does tend to draw its share of attention," Remington answered, feigning modesty.

"Remington Steele and unknown woman…" Lloyd joked, good-naturedly, as he returned his attention to Laura, "Or is it Remington Steele and his secretary?" Laura's eyes narrowed as they flashed fire at the man..

"I happen to be licensed private—"

"Relax, Laura. I've known you for… fifteen years now? I think it's safe to say you'd be no man's secretary." He rubbed his hands together, warming them, as was his habit. "Alright, since you'll be moving ahead with the pregnancy, we'll be doing a full exam today, drawing some blood and we'll finish with another look at the baby."

"Alright," she agreed. Lloyd reached behind her and untied the gown, then began to slip it over her shoulders. On instinct, Remington grabbed the ties, holding the gown taut. Doctor or not, the only man that would be admiring Laura's lovely breasts were himself. Two heads swung in his direction, one face registering surprise, the other fury.

"I understand I'm new at this fatherhood role," he announced, "But even I know the baby resides much further… south."

"Out," Laura bit out, while Lloyd chuckled. Remington was, by no means, the first soon-to-be-father to react in such a manner.

"Laura, I assure you—"

"Out, now!" she reported more loudly. "This is uncomfortable enough without _you_ trying to mark your territory. Get out!" She grabbed at the gown when he released the ties. Taking a step back, he gave her a pleading look.

"But, Laura, the babe," he reminded her, coming perilously close to a whine. Determined if he were to be a father he'd be involved from the very start, it had taken a great deal of talking to convince Laura he should be a part of these appointments. To be cut out now? He was positively crestfallen, and it showed. She softened, a touch.

"I'll have someone come get you before Dr. Lloyd does the ultrasound, but for now—" She pointed to the door again. His lips parted to argue, then thinking better of it, clamped shut. Should he press his luck, he might find himself permanently cooling his heels in the waiting room. With a final, pouting look at her, he left the room.

She drew in a deep breath and let it slowly, before releasing the gown and letting it flutter down beneath her breasts.

"Let's get this over with."

* * *

It was the longest twenty-three minutes of Remington's life, or so it seemed, as he waited for that door leading back to the exam rooms to open. The first five minutes he spent grousing to himself about unreasonable women, the next ten wondering what was happening behind those doors, then the last eight panicking that Laura had changed her mind and had decided to exclude him after all. When the door finally opened and a nurse stepped out to call his name, he fairly dashed across the room to slip past her before that door closed again.

Three minutes later he was bent over, squinting at a screen as Lloyd moved a wand over Laura's stomach. For the life of him, he saw nothing except what resembled a channel of air on a black and white television.

"Ah, there we are," Lloyd commented, pointing at the screen.

Remington moved closer while Laura watched him. She identified the second his eyes found the small bean shape. Shifting slightly backwards, he pressed a hand to his mouth, as he leaned back in again.

"Is that…?"

"it is," Lloyd confirmed as he continued to move the wand, press buttons and type on the keyboard. "Given the measurements, I'd say you're a little more than nine weeks and should expect his or her arrival by no later than the first of the year."

Remington swayed slightly on his feet at that. _A father? By the New Year?_ It was enough to boggle the mind. Was he ready for this? Would he be any good at it? As he was considering giving in to blind panic, Laura was lost in some thoughts of her own. The first of the year? She reviewed the list of all that would need to be done before the baby's arrival.

After pressing a button on the ultrasound which sent paper spewing from a slot, Lloyd turned to look at Remington. To his credit he managed to tamp down another laugh, seeing the younger man's pale, clammy skin. He moved a chair over near Remington.

"Maybe you should have a seat, Mr. Steele." He'd seen enough men, over the years of his career, become overwhelmed, and by the looks of Remington he was barely hanging on by a thread.

"Huh? What?" Remington asked, it taking the man's words a minute to make it through the fog of his thoughts. He flipped a dismissive hand at the doctor. "I'm fine, I'm fine." Lloyd merely smiled then returned to stand next to the ultrasound.

"Ready for the big show?"

As the thrum-thrum-thrum sounded through the speakers, Remington reached for Laura's hand.

"Is that…?"

"The baby's heartbeat," she finished softly, when seemed unable to finish.

"I think I should sit down," he mumbled easing his way towards the chair. He nearly made it, his legs giving way when the chair was directly behind him, but the angle at which he dropped scooted the chair away and he landed, hard, on the floor.

While Laura's gales of laughter competed with their child's heartbeat, Lloyd cracked open the exam room door.

"Stacy!"

A petite blonde appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, sir?" Lloyd bobbed his head back in Remington's general direction.

"A glass of water for Mr. Steele, please."

"No way!"

"Have a look." He stepped aside so the nurse could see where Remington sat on the floor.

"Damn." She turned on her heel to collect the requested cup of water.

"What was that about?" Laura asked when Lloyd shut the door.

"Oh, just a little bet. Stacy thought he'd tough it out. I wagered he was a fainter," Lloyd laughed, her laughter joining his.

She turned her head to the side, and peered at her partner.

"Are you alright?" she asked, around her ongoing mirth. A pair of dazed eyes looked up at her.

"We're going to be parents, Laura," he said in half-wonder, half-fear.

"Yes, we are," she agreed.

"How? How did this happen?" Laughter bubbling up again, she smirked at him, then raised her brows.

"Well," she drawled, "Sometimes when a man and a woman like each other _very much…._ "


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 _Three weeks later_

Laura sat curled up in the corner of her couch, eyes closed, as she sipped at her cup of tea.

Morning sickness had heralded its official arrival at ten-weeks-and-one-day. For a little more than two weeks, the moment she opened her eyes in the morning the room swam and her stomach churned. Rationally, she knew she should feel fortunate the seasick feeling only clung for a couple of hours. The numerous books she and Remington had already read on pregnancy had all noted that many women experienced morning sickness the entire day.

But, as she leaned over the toilet emptying the contents of her stomach - and often it seemed like well more than that – wishing desperately that someone was there to hold her hair, rub her back, to offer her a cool cloth to press against her face after each round, she felt neither rational nor thankful. As far as she was concerned the morning sickness put a blight upon the entire day. After the second consecutive day of arriving late to the office, earning her a knowing – and incorrect – smirk from Mildred, she'd altered her schedule, setting her alarm clock for five-thirty instead of seven.

Which, of course, meant by ten-thirty in the evening she was beyond tired. On many an evening by the time ten o'clock arrived she'd shoved Remington towards the front door or, when at his flat, had made her excuses then departed.

There were evenings when those early partings were a blessing, especially the first nights after his return when she'd been alternately jumpy or angry. Her decision to leave him, her decision to return to him, his decision to leave, her decision to find him, his decisions in Cannes served to confuse her all the more.

In the months after returning from Cannes and the Glee Club Alumni tour, she'd discovered the true meaning of loneliness. It had surprised her to realize how much time they'd truly spent with one another since his arrival in her life: Exhilarating weekdays spent chasing down mysteries, quiet weekday evenings in front of the fire or walking along the shore, and weekends of golf dates, the ballet, dinners at Chez Rives. When she'd ended their personal relationship, she'd discovered there were reminders everywhere of just how thoroughly he'd woven himself into the fabric of her life. She'd sit down to play, and there he was beneath her hands in the form of the piano he'd given her. She'd walk into her kitchen and remember how many comfortable evenings he'd spent cooking a meal. She'd lie in her bed to sleep, and although they'd never experienced that 'ultimate moment' in it together, there were the memories of her lying prone, eyes closed, while he massaged her tired feet. Even driving the Rabbit evoked warm reflections on the unspoken agreement they'd come to in regards to driving: He'd cede the decision on who drove to her when they were working, meaning it was she at the wheel in more cases than not, while during personal hours they slipped naturally into the more traditional roles of the man driving. He was such a… gentleman… opening and closing doors, holding out chairs, escorting her with the touch of his fingers at the small of her back, that it had never occurred her to mind. It was simply a part of who he was.

She'd never been _lonely_ after Wilson's departure. Blindsided? Yes. Crushed? Absolutely. Disillusioned in the staying power of men? Oh, yeah. But lonely? Not that. They'd been a couple, certainly. Had lived together, obviously. They'd been lovers, but never friends. They'd shared the same bed, they'd had sex and she'd loved him, but they'd lived lives separate and apart from one another. She'd been then, as she was now, a workaholic. He'd been equally devoted to his job at the bank. It was a rarity that they sat down for a meal together. They'd vacationed together exactly once, and that had been not only an unmitigated disaster, but the catalyst for him leaving.

The night she'd left Remington she'd posed the question:

* * *

" _ **Do we really have anything else in common besides this agency?"**_

* * *

She had to wonder now if her history with Wilson had been the impetus for the question. After all, what had she and Wilson had in common other than their devotion to their jobs? He was hospital corners on the bed, she was 'the bed'll get made when and if I think about it." He was 'supper on the table at six, she was 'make it yourself.' He was caution, she was throw caution to the wind. He was staid propriety, she was impulsive. He was a sensible single finger of scotch straight up, she was too much tequila and doing a fan dance on the bar.

And where had that gotten her? Their irreconcilable differences had ended with him walking out without a word and her heart broken.

Just as the differences between her father and mother had seen him leaving as well.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she admitted to herself now, she'd always wondered if the differences between she and Remington would see them coming to the same end. From her own experiences, after all, opposites didn't attract, as the old adage insisted. They repelled.

Why had it taken losing him to understand that they were not remotely similar to her mother and father, Wilson and her?

Their differences complemented one another. He was instinct, she was logic combined with experience and training. He was devil may care, she was pragmatic. He was a gourmet cook who truly enjoyed the task, she couldn't boil water and had no interest in learning how. She insisted on him becoming a better man, while he urged her to be who she truly was at heart. He was live life to the fullest, she was work until you run out of fuel and then begin again.

The truly big differences, they appreciated in one another. As for the insignificant ones? Well, compromise had come easily. He was Dom Perignon and caviar, while she was pizza and cotton candy. She savored their dinner dates at Chez Rives, L'Ornate and other restaurants he discerned worthy, while he relished afternoons on the pier watching her take her pleasure in all the confections offered. He was old movies, she was old television series. She'd learned to appreciate a quiet night in watching one of his beloved flicks, while he sat through afternoon marathons of _Twilight Zone_ and _Atomic Man_ while limiting his sarcasm as best he could. He was tailored suits and Italian shoes, she was off-the-rack business suits and sensible pumps. He'd come to appreciate a pair of comfortable sweatpants and t-shirt on weekend afternoons, and she'd spiced up her wardrobe with a designer piece or two.

For that matter, why hadn't she given due weight to how similar they were? They'd both been abandoned as children by a parent, although he much more catastrophically than she. They both believed in justice. They were steadfast in their loyalty to the people in their lives. They loved adventure, the adrenaline rush that followed a particularly daunting feat. They were intelligent, with a quick wit and occasionally acerbic tongues. They loved water, enjoyed a quiet night at home and would lay down their lives for one another.

Was it any wonder that after he'd left, a yawing chasm of emptiness had opened in her heart?

So what was she _doing?_

She sighed over her cup of tea.

He'd come home on nothing more than a suspicion. He was fighting for her, for them. He'd been a committed partner since returning. He'd been patient, as he'd promised he would be. He'd been honest… blatantly, stomach-clenching honest at times. As he'd always done, he followed her lead, never pressured, allowed her to determine the pace and path.

In short, he'd done everything she'd asked of him. But she was having a hard time forgetting.

It had taken days for that hickey on his neck to fade, each glimpse of it leaving her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as images of him…

 _..._ with _Felicia_ , of all people...

...Flooded her mind...

Would it have mattered if it had been any woman but _her_? Long ago she'd resolved not to think about the fact he was likely discretely getting his needs assuaged elsewhere. He was, after all, a grown man with a healthy libido – a libido she wasn't satisfying. She snorted a laugh. _Nor he mine._ Discretion had been the key word, a play on a pearl of wisdom her grandmother had bestowed upon her regularly during her childhood: what you don't know can't hurt you.

And the women she'd known about – or had suspected she'd known about – had certainly left their sting. Anna. Felicia. Two women so similar in both appearance and character, that they were nearly identical: Both tall, curvy, cool blondes who didn't give a damn about anything accept what they wanted. Oh they'd left their mark on her, alright.

She'd come to realize she was having a hard time forgetting not because of the woman involved but because, in order to forget, first she'd have to forgive herself. Her actions had been, after all, the catalyst for all that had come after.

In the back of her head she'd known, without him ever saying those three words, that he'd been hers for the taking. For three years, he'd partnered her, had become friends with her, had romanced her... for three years he had s _tayed._ And, only a blind woman would have missed the look in his eyes since they'd crossed that line. A look that said 'I'm lying my heart in the palm of your hand. Please, take care of it.' She wasn't, after all, the only one who bore scars from life's lessons. He had more than his share, as well. And instead of taking that heart and keeping it safe, she'd first trampled upon it and then thrown it away. She'd have to find a way to forgive herself for that.

First, however, she had to forgive herself for the mere act of allowing herself to _need_ someone else. She'd vowed to stand on her own two feet, to answer to no one, to take on the world on her own terms. If life had taught her anything, it had taught her the only person you could trust to stay, to stand and fight, was yourself. Yet, she'd gone and thrown all her resolve away by falling in love with, allowing herself to need, the one man guaranteed to break her heart.

She was frowning as she set aside her cup of tea, then stood and retreated to her bedroom to get dressed for the day.

So, what had she done? She'd broken both their hearts, and in doing so had set into motion the chain of events that brought them to where they were right now: mired down in hurt and regrets. All for being human, as Remington had once said to her.

Reaching into the closet, she selected a navy suit with pencil skirt and white silk blouse to wear to the office on the day. Stripping off her robe, she dropped it onto the bed.

Her mind wandered back to her thoughts as she drew on her blouse, and her fingers slid deftly down the front, buttoning it. The first step towards moving forward, towards forgiving herself, she realized, was admitting she was just that: human. She'd made a mistake. A critical one, but a mistake nonetheless. Yet, he'd made his share of mistakes as well. Perhaps, they were even on that front.

Removing a pair of hose from her top dresser drawer, she sat down on the side of the bed to put them on.

Remington had sensed her reticence, how could he not - especially in those first few days when the bruise remained prominently on his neck, leaving her skittering away? In the two weeks since, a great deal of the light, teasing camaraderie characteristic of their friendship had returned. Once the wounded accusation had stopped appearing on her face, he'd begun looking at her less warily. His smile had come more easily, as had her own. His touch had grown more frequent. Many of the habits from their – what? Dating days? – had returned: Quiet talks before the fire, dancing in the living room, dinner at Chez Rives and L'Ornate, a trip to the pier, a round of golf, a few sets of tennis.

Standing, she pulled her skirt off the hanger then leaned over to step into it.

On the eighth night after his return, they'd kissed for the first time. Hesitant at first, the kiss had quickly taken on a life of its own. Memories of sharing a bed with him, of making love with him, had been enough to send desire coursing through her blood. And for a moment, she'd forgotten everything that had happened between them. She'd parted her lips, humming in anticipation of tasting him, while pressing closer and drawing a hand through his hair, down his neck. His arm snaked around her shoulder, his hand buried itself in her hair, and he issued an answering hum of his own when his tongue slipped past those lips to caress hers. And when her tongue had had tangled with his not only willingly, but eagerly? He'd pressed her back into the pillows of her couch, and kissed her with deep longing.

"Laura," he murmured, when their lips briefly parted, in that breathy way of his when he was infinitely aroused.

She'd immediately tensed in his arms, as reality and the strain between them had gone crashing through her mind. Automatically, his arm around her had loosened and he'd leaned back to examine her face, her eyes and whatever he'd found there had made him draw away. And since? While the wariness had left his eyes, fear of rejection and a quiet plea that she forgive him had taken its place. She hated to see that look in his eyes, wished fervently for the warmth that had been there before her fateful decision.

Tugging up her skirt, she reached behind her back to zipper it. When the zipper got stuck, she gave it a tug. Then a jerk. Only after she muttered an oath under her breath did it occur to her this issue did not lay with the zipper but her body. Letting the skirt drop to the floor, she tugged off her pantyhose then, lifting her shirt, she examined herself in the mirror while stroking a hand of her stomach. Was she imagining the slight swell she thought she found there? She wasn't sure. But she knew with an absolute certainly that she'd worn this particular suit not even a month before. Smile widening further, she happily began to plow through her wardrobe, finally selecting a pair of black dress pants that offered a bit more room and a taupe blazer.

Time was marching forward, she recognized. And she wanted her and her Mr. Steele to move forward as well. She desperately missed—

Her brows raised in surprise when a knock sounded at her door. With purposeful steps, she descended the stairs to her bedroom and walked to the front door. Unlatching it, she gave the door a firm tug. She didn't even bother hiding her shock when she saw the tall, burly figure standing there.

"Mr. Veenhoff, what are you doing here?"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Here, Fred," Remington called to the Agency's driver.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Steele," Fred answered in his typical easy-going manner. Double parking, he ignored the blare of horns rising on the street behind the limo. The Boss would be back before the first traffic cop or meter reader could arrive to present them with a ticket. In the meantime, the other drivers could go around, if they were in that big of a hurry to make it home.

With a long-legged stride, Remington hopped the curb, coming to a standstill in front of the newsstand.

" _Bedside Babes_ ," he requested tersely. The vendor reached behind a piece of cardboard and tossed him one wordlessly. "All of them," he clarified, for which he received a queer look, even as the man pulled the stack out and handed them to him in exchange for the fifty in Remington's hand. "Ex-wife. Going to send copies to all her family." That earned a chuckle from the man. Grabbing his change, he hustled back to the limo.

A block and a half later…

"Drugstore, Fred," Remington announced.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Steele," Fred replied, as he double-parked again.

"Right back," Remington assured as he stepped out of the limo and jogged through the drugstore doors.

* * *

Fred's curiosity got the better of him. After assuring the coast was clear, he fully lowered the window stationed, for privacy, between the backseat and the front. Pressing his foot to the floorboard, he leaned back and grabbed one of the copies of the magazine Remington had been filling the back seat with.

" _Bedside Babes?_ " he muttered. "Mr. Steele?"

He gave idea consideration then abandoned it.

 _Naw, I can't see the boss getting into the truly raunchy stuff_. _Must be for a client_ , he concluded, which would explain why they had been buying up every copy across LA since he'd picked the Boss up to take him to that photography studio. _Yeah. That had to be it. That waitress from the diner_ … he snapped his fingers trying to recall her name…. _Janey… Josie… Jackie… Yeah, that was it. That waitress Jackie had gone inside not long after the Boss_.

Curiosity got the better of him, and with a quick glance at the drugstore doors, he opened the cover and began thumbing through the pages. He stopped on page thirty-four and laughed aloud.

 _Well, that's not Jackie. It's that babe, Betsy._

He turned the magazine from side-to-side.

 _Not bad. Not bad at all,_ he admired. _He'd_ always suspected she'd be one foxy woman out of that shapeless uniform he always saw her in.

He laughed aloud, wondering if this might be a two-for-one after all, and if he might find Jackie in the magazine as well.

Eighteen pages later he was caught so by surprise that the magazine jumped from his hands and the bit of juggling he had do to catch it before it fell to the seat had creased several pages.

 _I'll toss it on the floor_ , he decided, turning back to the centerfold.

 _Miss Holt. Naw. No way._ But there was no mistaking the face that had stared back at him for five years in the rearview mirror. _No wayyyyyyyyy._

He barked a loud laugh.

 _There's no way that rack is Miss Holt's._

Someone had clearly done some funny business to that picture. He'd seen Miss Holt in few different low-cut dresses, and there was no way she was hiding _that rack_ under there. He scowled at the picture. In fact, he'd bet a month's pay that the picture wasn't Miss Holt from the neck down. Her freckles stopped midway down her neck in the pictures, but those same dresses had shown them all the way down to her breasts.

And the legs? He'd dropped off Miss Holt to run more times than he could count and she'd always been wearing those skimpy shorts of hers. Her legs were slim and muscular, whereas the legs in the magazine were thick and lacked the same tone. They were nice legs, but they weren't Miss Holt's.

This time when he laughed, he could be heard on the street.

Dropping the magazine on the floorboard behind him, he raised the privacy glass until it was only cracked open as it had been before.

It was no wonder the Boss was buying up every copy he could find.

 _Oh, boy. I'd hate to be whoever it was who published that picture when Miss Holt gets a'hold them._

That thought, alone kept him amused until Remington returned.

* * *

"Twenty-one-eight-five," the cashier announced, as he gave Remington an assessing look. "You seem more the _Playboy_ type to me. You sure about these? They can be a bit rough." Remington prayed for patience.

"Younger sister fell off into the wrong crowd," he waved his hand towards the magazine. "Mother's mortified and crying buckets." The clerk gave him a sympathetic look.

"You'll wanna be sure to hit the Boulevard then. The johns use them for… inspiration…. Where their pockets are empty."

Remington groaned aloud, but nodded his thanks as he accepted his change.

Back in the limo.

"The Boulevard, Fred."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"You look lovely this evening," Remington greeted, pressing a kiss to Laura's cheek then stepping back to allow her entrance to his flat. The black-and-white checked shirt, red pants and suspender outfit veered from her norm, but he thought she looked… adorable… in it, the clothing somehow emphasizing how petite she was.

"Something smells good," she complimented.

"Eggplant parmesan. I started it a bit late, I'm afraid, but it should be ready…" he checked his watch, "…within the half hour." Her brows drew together as she rounded the couch.

"What's all this?" she asked, with a wave of her hand towards the four stacks of magazines. He glanced at the stacks on his way to turn on the fireplace.

"I think it's safe to say there's not a single copy of _Bedside Babes_ to be purchased within a three block radius of the Agency or the loft." He stretched out on his side on the floor across from her, propping himself up on an elbow.

"That must have taken you a while," she noted, carefully keeping a neutral tone. She was still a bit put out with him to be frank. She wasn't sure what irritated her more: That he hadn't immediately realized that it wasn't her in that porno magazine, or that he believed her capable of doing such in the first place.

"A good apology often requires exceptional effort." He tossed a copy of the magazine into the flames as he tried to gauge her mood.

"Oh? An apology? For anything in particular?" A smile played at the corner of his lips as he threw a magazine into the fire. He should have known she wouldn't make this easy. A magazine thrown by her own hand followed his.

"You can imagine my shock when the FBi came to the office, and there you were staring up at me," he began, adding another magazine .

"I'm vaguely familiar with the feeling," she drawled, fingering her neck before adding more to the flames.

"At first I was bloody well stunned you, of all people, would do such a thing. Then the mere _thought_ of—"

"Slobbering perverts, sex-starved Marines and convicts on death row?" He had the decency to grimace at the reminder of the bit of fun he'd had with her.

"Not to mention that little seed Emily Stevens planted," he added.

* * *

" _ **Those pictures were meant for her husband's eyes only.**_ **"**

* * *

"Even if your picture had ended up the magazine the same way Lucille Bascombe's had, who were the pictures intended for?" he continued. "I knew bloody well _I_ hadn't been bestowed with them…." The next magazine hit the flames with unintended vigor.

"You were jealous," she accused, succinctly.

"Well, yes," he admitted grudgingly. "How would you have felt had it been me staring up from those pages at you?" he challenged, a smile playing on his lips. He lifted his brows at her. "Hmmm?" Oh, ho. No way she was she giving him the satisfaction of answering _that._

"I suppose you're wondering why I went to Veenhoff's in the first place," she changed the subject as she tossed another magazine in.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he conceded, drily, his tone indicating he as aware of what she'd done. The magazine in his hand followed the one she'd just thrown

"It all started innocently enough. I needed a portrait for the alumni journal, and-"

"Of course you did," he interrupted, his voice and expression suggesting he doubted her veracity.

"You see, that's what I mean," she huffed her indignation, "That's exactly why I didn't come to you about this in the first place," she protested. "I needed a portrait. He took a portrait. I didn't know anything about Veenhoff's boudoir business until he came to me with his problem." He gave her a toothy smile, amused that he'd managed to set her off so easily.

"The alumni journal, eh?" He flipped open the copy of the magazine he held in hand.

"Perfectly legitimate," she retorted with an air of superiority as she leaned towards him and spread her arms to emphasize her point.

"Oh, the alumni are gonna be delighted with this, aren't they?" He feigned an appreciative leer at the pages in front of him.

There it was. What she'd been desperately missing these last months. That warm sparkle in his eyes as merriment danced through them. The easy, impertinent grin. The lazy lift and drop of his shoulder as he shrugged off her small display of temper. His ability to tease her past her problems. Life just seemed so much… lighter… when he was in it.

And with that realization, she made the conscious decision to move forward. With a silent laugh, she snatched the magazine from his hand and threw it into the fireplace. Before he had time to realize what was on her mind, she pressed forward on her hands and knees. He grunted in surprise when their lips met, then again when she urged him to his back. Her lips lifted in a smile against his, to match his own, as she stretched herself out on top of him and his arms encircled her. As easily as he'd always been able to feel her reticence in the tension of her body beneath his hands, he understood the meaning of the sudden pliancy in the lithe frame beneath his hands.

If he hadn't? Well, the pair of hands that streaked through his hair before gentle fingers teased lightly behind his ears would have said it all. In those three nearly perfect weeks they'd spent together before it had all fallen apart, she'd learned for herself precisely what that act did to him. With a hum of part relief that it appeared she was ready to let the past go and part nothing more than desire for the lovely young woman in his arms, he rolled them over, deepening the kiss as he settled his lean frame between her legs.

Their lips parted with a soft pop as they turned their heads to look towards the kitchen from where a buzzing sound emanated. She laughed silently at the pained look upon his face as he tried to decide whether he'd be able to ignore the infernal sound rather than risk her changing her mind and locking herself back behind those walls of hers.

Laura lay her hand against his cheek and eased his face in her direction.

"Turn off the oven, Mr. Steele," she murmured, lifting her head to brush her lips against one cheek, then his lips. He found confidence that she wouldn't be changing her mind when he saw the embers of quiet desire burning in her eyes. She eased herself out beneath him and stood. "I'll be waiting in the bedroom."

Capturing her hand before she could leave, Remington tugged her back to him. He kissed her long, hard and deep. When he ended the kiss he pulled his head away, while tasting her on his lips. At the dazed look in her eyes, he nodded his head, satisfied she wouldn't be changing her mind.

With one, last, quick kiss he shooed her off to the bedroom with a pat of his hand against her hip, then strode towards the kitchen to remove dinner from the oven and turn off the alarm.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Remington stirred, his eyes blinking open. Relief pulsed through his veins when he found Laura lying on her back still fast asleep beside him much the same way as she'd fallen asleep: head pillowed on his arm, one of his legs tucked between hers, and his arm slung over her waist, his hand gently clutching it. Contrary to his fears, in those first waking moments, it hadn't been another dream that ended in the crushing blow of him waking up to a Laura-less bed.

They'd made love and afterwards had dined in his bed, forgoing the eggplant parmesan for a plate of cheese, fruit and bread, then had made love again before they'd fallen into a light slumber. The evening had been reminiscent of their days spent in the cabin, lending to his fear it had all been just a dream. Shifting beside her, he fingered her hair back over her shoulder. He had no idea what kind of compromises she'd had to make with herself to allow this night happen, but his gratitude was boundless that she had.

It hadn't been easy getting back to this, what they'd begun building before her fateful decision that night a couple of months before... and his foolish decisions afterwards. Since he'd returned she'd lived on the edge of her emotions. Leaving as he had, had confirmed her greatest fear: that one day she might wake to find he'd vanished back into the misty night from which he'd come. As for bedding Felicia? Well, that had had its intended effect as well as a morass of consequences he'd have been unwilling to pay had he put any thought, whatsoever, into his impetuous choice to wound Laura, to leave her with the images of him with another woman, much as she had left him with images of her with another man.

Lifting the hand lying at her waist, he rubbed his face. Good God, those first days after his return had been simply brutal in many ways. She'd been alternately reticent and seemingly, at times, apathetic when it had come to trying to salvage their personal relationship. What made it worse was she had every reason to be torn, untrusting. When her eyes would alight on the bruise left by Felicia, the naked hurt on her face, in those eyes, had left him full of remorse and feeling like quite the cad. That he'd intentionally inflicted such pain upon her? Well, it left him not liking himself... not very much at all. And, it had become patently clear that she needed answers to questions she'd never dare to ask if they had any hope, whatsoever, of trying to piece back together what they'd had not so long ago.

Thus, a truly awkward conversation had been initiated by himself with her, not even a week yet since he'd returned home.

"I stopped 'round the physician's office yesterday," he approached with no little discomfort, as he sliced the tomatoes to add to the salad that would be accompanying their dinner. She snatched a slice of carrot from the cutting board, from where she perched on the island.

"Oh? I didn't realize you hadn't been feeling well."

"I'm not. Feeling unwell that is." He paid an inordinate amount of attention to the tomato in front of him. "It was more… a precautionary visit." He dared to look up and watch as eyes flitted away from him, as understanding began to dawn.

"Oh?" Her refusal to look at him, the way her face pinched with distress, made his stomach flip-flop and his gut clench. For the hundredth time, he questioned what he'd been thinking, what he'd done what he had… and if in doing so he'd destroyed any possibility of them ever recovering. Nevertheless, he forged on as best he could given his suddenly thick tongue.

"We… I… used protection… a condom. Still, I thought it wise… for you… the babe… that I… get a clean bill of health." While the first words had been said haltingly, to say the least, the last half dozen he'd breathed out in a single puff of air, as his face had flamed bright red. The words hadn't come out at all as he'd practiced them a dozen times over and the apparent presumption that their physical relationship would at some point resume had hung between them throughout the entirety of the meal…

After which she'd scampered out the door as quickly as her feet could carry her, leaving him with the impression that those few gossamer threads still binding them to one another were unraveling before his eyes. How she'd found it within herself to allow them to move on past his indiscretion, his betrayal, he didn't know, but God above knew how thankful he was that she had.

He'd stopped denying, even to himself, what it was that he wanted. He wanted her, a life with her, a home with her, a family with her. He wanted their child to have something neither of them had ever had: two parents who loved one another, who provided a warm, stable, loving environment in which their child would flourish.

A child who seemed to be making its presence known, he acknowledged, a smile lighting his face as he skimmed a hand over her bare tummy. His eyes flickered upwards to rest on her face, assuring himself she was still sleeping, and finding she was, he shifted downwards so his head was near her belly as he continued to explore it with whisper-soft strokes of his fingers.

As they'd made love, he'd noticed the changes in her body the instant his sensitive fingers had come into contact with her slim form. How could he not? He had, after all, spent endless hours memorizing every inch of her lovely frame. The gentle slope of her breasts had become slightly more full. Her delicate waist had thickened just enough that her soft curves had become less pronounced. But it was the new fullness to her abdomen which had really brought it all home to him.

Laura was pregnant.

With his child.

And he was bloody well chuffed about it.

A baby. _Our child_ _._ He traced his fingers across Laura's abdomen.

Girl or boy? Boy or girl? Who would the babe look like? Laura? Him? Or a mixture of the two of them? Would the babe make its way through the world seizing each day like himself? Or would the babe be more like Laura, carefully calculating the risks before taking that first step? Would he or she wish to one day wander the world or would they prefer to stay close to home? Would he or she play the piano, draw, or dance? Any of those a'tall?

Good God, he hoped if their child was a girl that she'd have her mother's expressive brown eyes, her mother's freckles. He frowned slightly. Or perhaps not, on the latter, should those dapples of color fascinate a young man, as much as cinnamon sprinkles across her mother's skin had intoxicated him from the start. No. No need to beg for trou—

A set of fingers stroked the top of his head. Lifting his head, he held captive a pair of questioning brown eyes with his blue ones.

Then leaned down and touched his lips to her stomach, allowing them to linger.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Laura blinked her eyes rapidly to fend off the threatening tears as she watched Remington's lips linger against her stomach, that single action more telling of how he felt about this pregnancy than any words could have spoken.

"Can you tell?" she whispered softly, unwilling to break the mood.

"Aye," he answered in a low voice, following her lead.

"How?" Bestowing her with a tender smile, he shifted upwards to stretch out next to her side. An elegant hand reached out and cradled her breast.

"Here, to start. You're… heavier… than you were before," he explained. "And while your breasts have always been delightfully sensitive…" He brushed a thumb over the top of her nipple, drawing a quick indrawn breath from her and they watched in fascination as the peak immediately hardened, "…they are even more so now."

"What else?" His hand moved southward, then west, to her waist

"Here. You're…." He shook his head, trying to find the right words. "…just the slightest bit more full." He traced the tips of his fingers along her waist from ribs to hip. "The curve of your waist is no longer as pronounced." His hand traveled eastward, to her tummy. "And here, in the swell of your stomach." Raising up on her elbows she stared down at her stomach, then shook her head. She could see it no more than she could that morning. Flopping back down on her back with a frustrated sigh, she said as much.

"I don't see it." He pursed his lips and nodded his head.

"Close your eyes, Laura." She gave him a questioning look, but did as he asked. He took her hand in his. "It's not as easily seen as felt." He guided her hand from her pelvis, upwards, stopping just above her navel. Her lashes fluttered open, and she pressed back up on an elbow, staring at what would appear, to the naked eye, a perfectly flat stomach. She watched as Remington drew her hand up over her stomach again. Her face lit up.

"I can feel it," she announced, wonderstruck. There it was, the slightest rise in the center of her abdomen. She found a smile as wide as her own on his face when she turned her head to look at him. Then the reality of what was beneath her hand hit home and she dropped to her back on the bed, lifting a pair of fingers to her brow. "Parents," she murmured. "Are you ready for this?" she asked, voice rising with worry.

"I suppose that depends upon what you mean," he answered, honestly. Rolling to his back, he slung an arm behind him and pillowed his head upon it. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips several times. "Before…" He licked his lips, nervously, again. "Ah, Laura, before? I never knew where I would be the next… or with who." He rubbed at his mouth. "That was okay. I always liked it like that. But the life I was living, the people I knew…" he shook his head at the memories, "…it wasn't a life for a child. And the women? Not a one did I ever envision having a future with, let alone a child."

"Not even Anna?" she inserted the question, as she rolled to her side to look at him. His eyes flicked to her then away, focusing on the ceiling. Pursing his lips, he slowly shook his head.

"Not even Anna," he answered, with some difficulty, memories of the woman always leaving him feeling as though someone had plunged a knife in his gut, "I fancied myself in love with her, Laura. But even then… Marriage? A home? A family?" He laughed ruefully. "No, none of those things ever came to mind. A season, at most, is all I ever believed we'd have together before we'd go our separate ways. I'm still not sure what that means." She lay a hand against his chest, regretting having brought up the painful topic of Anna.

"I'm sorry." He captured her hand in his and weaved their fingers together.

"No, I had never imagined having a child, and I vowed before my first…" he wagged his head against his arm "…experience… that no matter what a woman said, I'd provide my own protection, and I never once broke that vow. I'd neither risk leaving a child behind nor would I be tricked or trapped into staying."

"I understand," she answered quietly. He turned to his side, facing her. Brushing her hair back over her shoulder, he cupped her cheek in his hand.

"But that was before I met you." She blinked long and slow, searching his eyes for… something.

"And now?" she prodded, gently.

"And now, I'd be a buggering liar if I said I wasn't scared," he admitted. "I've no idea how to be a father, Laura, and I imagine I'll bungle things here and there. But I suspect being a good father begins with wanting your child. And I've discovered I do want this child… very much so." He smiled at her and lifted a brow. "Enough so, that I may have pondered names now and again." The idea tickled her. She'd known he'd been reading books on pregnancy and childbirth, much as she had, but the thought of him sitting down with a baby name book…. She couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face.

"You have?" she asked, tugging sheet and blanket up over her shoulders when the A/C kicked on.

"Mmmmm. I believe a child should have a name that holds personal meaning to his… or her… parents," he revealed, as he climbed from bed then walked to his dresser. "Don't you agree?" he asked, as he handed her a shirt from his pajama drawer. Her eyes narrowed on him. Normally when he expounded on a matter in such a way, it meant he was up to something she'd be opposed to.

"I suppose…" she drew out the words, as she slipped on the shirt.

"A unique name, so he or she stands out amongst all the Tom, Dick and Janes," he continued as he pulled on the pants that matched the shirt she was now buttoning, "Don't you think?"

"I guess that would depend on the name one has in mind," she replied, cautiously, still waiting on that shoe to fall.

"A name with integrity, one that allows them to hold their head high." She rolled her eyes as he climbed back into bed.

"Can I assume Wilbur, Gaylord, Bertha and Dorcas are out then?" she deadpanned. He gave her a horrified look, as he held open an arm to her, an invitation to join him.

"If you don't wish the tike to be forced to fight for their very life each day in the play yard at school, yes," he concurred. "It should be a strong name, one—"

"Some time tonight would be nice, Mr. Steele," she interrupted, as she settled her head beneath his shoulder.

"I'm particularly fond of Hum—"

"Noooooooo."

"Now, Laura, you haven't even given it a cha—"

"Not happening."

"But it's a name with integrity, a history, a name to aspire to, much like my own," he beseeched.

"Need I remind you you're named after a typewriter?" she reminded, drolly.

"Yes, but I aspired to be your vision of the man, not the object from which you drew inspiration for the name," he countered. "Just give it some thought, that's all I ask."

"Alright," she drew out the word. A smile lifted his lips, certain once she really thought about it, she'd see the appeal of the name. He'd barely time to finish the thought before a resounding "No" was issued from her lips, drawing his frown. Well, he'd known straight along it would take a bit of convincing on his part to sway her. A smile lifted his lips. A challenge. There was little more he enjoyed than a good challenge. A change of course, it appeared, was necessary. He feigned a sigh of resignation.

"Then for a girl, I thought we should consider a name that reminds me of you," he grinned, unseen.

"I shudder to ask," she answered drily, before yawning deeply.

"Myrtle comes to mind." He'd no sooner finished than he let out a yelp. "You _pinched_ me, Laura!"

"Be grateful I'm not wearing heels," she advised. "You know how much I hate that name."

"Bunny, then," he suggested.

" _Mr. Steele,"_ she ground out. Her protest served as a reminder of something else that had been on his mind.

"Laura," he began, "Don't you think it's high time you began calling me 'Remington'?" He felt her stiffen slightly against him, but to her credit, she didn't refuse outright as he'd feared she would.

"Is that the name you'd prefer?" she asked, cautiously. His name. It had been one of the many sticking points between them for a long, long time.

"It's who I am," he replied with a quiet confidence that assuaged more than just her concerns about his name. To release her grip on the name, to acknowledge 'Remington Steele' was who he saw himself as, was to tear down one of the few barriers left between them. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. If they planned to work towards a future with one another, to parent together, it was time to take this step forward.

"Alright." She wet her lips then added, "Go to sleep, Remington. We have an early day tomorrow."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The alarm on Remington's bedside table blared to life at six-thirty. With a groan of protest, he rolled to his opposite side and slapped at the snooze button, silencing the infernal noise. A murmur of content rumbled from his throat as he rolled back over and wrapped his body around Laura's, spooning with her as he'd been doing before the rude interruption.

"Oh, God," Laura muttered, before throwing his arm off her and making a mad dash for the bathroom.

She'd forgotten. It was that simple. She'd remembered the extra half-hour she'd need to go home and change for work but she'd forgotten the morning sickness. Slamming shut the door behind her, she threw herself down on her knees in front of the toilet in just the nick of time.

In the bedroom, Remington stared at the bathroom door wondering what in the devil had gotten into her. His heart started pounding against his ribs when the thought occurred that with the morning may have come regret. He dragged an anxious hand through his hair. If she rejected him… again, walked away… again. Yes, he'd promised her all the time she needed. But to have had last night, only to find himself out in the cold again?

An unexpected sound emanating from the bathroom cut into his thoughts. Narrowing his eyes on the door, he tried to discern what it was he'd heard, when it came again, more loudly the second time around. His face screwed up in a grimace as recognition for why it was she'd bolted as she had came to him. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he strode to the bathroom door and rapped lightly upon it with a single knuckle. The heaving sound permeated through the door again, followed by a panted…

"I'm… alright… just give me… a minute."

Followed by another round. With a shake of his head, he tested the doorknob and found the lock hadn't been engaged. Swinging the door open, he stepped inside.

She startled when his hand gathered her hair back and he stooped down behind her, rubbing her back.

"Morning sickness?" he speculated. Each of the books he'd read on pregnancy had made mention of the unpleasant phenomenon, but he'd believed Laura had been among one of the lucky ones not to be plagued by it. She nodded her head in answer.

"I'm… alright," she repeated, again, right before her stomach lurched and its contents came up.

"So it seems." He was a growing a bit put out, to be honest, that she'd not said anything to him of this before now. Casting that thought aside, for now, he reached behind him and pulled a washrag off the towel rack, then stretched to turn on the sink faucet and run the rag under cool water. When she eased back onto her haunches, he squeezed out the cloth and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she managed, breathing heavily.

"What helps?" he inquired, helping her to her feet and leaning past her to flush the toilet.

"Tea, crackers," she replied as she curled up in the chair sitting next to the bathroom doorway. He retrieved a blanket from the closet and draped it around her shoulders.

"Be right back." A hand laid against his arm stopped him.

"Can you call Mildred and asked her to reschedule my appointment with the accountant until Monday after lunch?"

"I can. Be right back with your tea," he repeated, then left the room.

In the kitchen, Remington quickly settled a teapot of water on the stove, then opening the pantry, removed a box of soda crackers. A plate, two saucers and two teacups quickly joined the crackers on the counter. Reaching for the phone, he dialed Mildred's home number while studying the selection of teas his pantry offered up.

"Krebs here, make it fast," Mildred announced when she answered her phone.

"Good morning, Mildred," he greeted cheerily.

"Boss?" she asked, incredulity threading her voice, as she glanced at the clock. _Calling before seven?_ "What's going on?"

"Miss Holt asked that I have you reschedule her meeting with the accountant until Monday after lunch. She'll be a bit late in to the office." Setting a pair of tea bags into the cups, he turned his attention to arranging the crackers on a plate.

"This is the third time in two weeks," Mildred exclaimed with concern.

"Maybe she's finally embracing the night life," he suggested. She guffawed in disbelief.

"Miss Holt… on a _weekday_? Nothin' doing. Heck, she even keeps you on a curfew." The woman had him there. Pursing his lips, he grabbed the small cutting board from the cabinet beneath the island, then turned to the knife drawer.

"Staying up late with a good book, then," he offered.

"Uh-uh," she rejected. "Coming in late, tired all the time and as little as she's been eating, I'm shocked she hasn't lost five pounds."

"Now, Mildred, you know Laura… healthy as the proverbial horse," he soothed, as he sliced the lemons, the phone tucked in the crook of his shoulder.

"It made sense, her being down in the dumps, not sleeping or eating while you were gone but what gives now?" she continued on as though he'd never spoken.

That comment had piqued his interest, however. _Couldn't eat or sleep? Down in the dumps?_ The thought put a smile on his face. Had missed him that much, had she? He might have a bit of fun with that, he mused. He gave his head a little shake when he realized Mildred was still speaking.

"…I'm telling you Boss, I think something is going on with Miss Holt and she's hiding it." God love the woman for always worrying after the two of them.

"Sweetheart, trust me when I say you've no need to worry," he insisted. Sliding the extra slices of lemon into a bowl, he covered it with Saran Wrap, set it in the fridge then dropped cutting board and knife in the sink. Turning on the water he reached for a sponge.

"Maybe it's just a bug," she prattled on, "But even if it is, after this long, she should really be seen." The kettle on the stove began to whistle. Drying off his hands, he grabbed the kettle and turned to the island to fill their cups. "I think I'll just stop by her place on the way in," she decided. "Have a talk with her. You know, just us girls." _How has this conversation veered out of my control?_ he sighed, settling the teapot back on the stove.

"She's not there," he forewarned, before he thought better of it. In a snap, Mildred moved from concerned to curious, jumping right on that little tidbit.

"And how do you know she's not there?" she asked in a sing-song voice that had him frowning.

"Never you mind that," he admonished. There were days the mother-like figure in his life reminded him a bit too much of a meddling mother, especially when it came to his and Laura's tempestuous personal relationship. When or if they shared the current status of their relationship with Mildred – not that he was quite certain himself where that now stood – it would good and well be whenever Laura decided they would. And, in that vein of thought, he feigned exasperation, "This is _Miss Holt_ we're speaking of. She is, however, on her way here so that we can run by the… um… Federal Building. Yes, that's it. To see if she can get anyone to give her an update on the status of the Fitzgerald's." Her eyes narrowed as she considered what he'd said and shrugged off her suspicions.

"How late are you gonna be?" He glanced towards his bedroom, realizing he had absolutely no idea how long Laura would be afflicted.

"No more than an hour, I'd think," he punted.

"Good. The two of you have an appointment with McElroy at ten-thirty. I'll just have that girl talk with her when we go out tonight." He nodded his head.

"Good, good. Then we'll see you—Wait. Wait," he interrupted himself as the entirety of what she'd said registered. "Going out tonight? You and Miss Holt?"

"Yup. Girl's night out." He watched as his hopes for that evening fell to ruins.

"Ah, I see. Well, we'll see you later. Bye-bye."

Hanging up the phone, he arranged their tea and her crackers on a tray and carried them back to the bedroom, where Laura remained curled up in the chair, looking a bit green.

"Feeling any better?" he asked, as he handed her the cup of tea. Her only answer was a pitiful look that asked 'do I look like I'm feeling any better?' as she took the cup and saucer from him. "I must say, I was a bit surprised to hear you and Mildred have plans this evening." His eyes flicked back and forth across her face as he looked at her over the rim of his teacup. He looked at her with alarm when she grimaced and groaned. "What? What is it?" he asked quickly, setting down his tea and preparing to stand. She waved him back down with a hand.

"I forgot," she lamented, as his face fell with disappointment at her confirmation he wouldn't be seeing her that evening. It made him nervous, frankly, that too much time apart and she might convince herself she'd made a mistake and she'd run. "She's been after me for days. Keeps insisting I'll love what she has planned." She sighed heavily. "I would never have gotten her to focus on the work at hand if I hadn't agreed." Tentatively, she lifted her teacup up…

Only for her to promptly set it back down on the table with a clatter, as she jumped up and took flight back into the bathroom. Gulping down the tea in his mouth, he followed, arriving just in time to gather back her hair again.

Ten minutes later, after they'd resumed their seats, she hesitantly reached for a cracker. When the smell didn't send her stomach flip-flopping, she took a small bite and allowed it to soften against her tongue as he resumed their prior conversation.

"Mildred's convinced you're on death's doorway," he announced. Her brow furrowed.

"What? Why?" She broke off another piece of cracker.

"She's noticed you're more tired than normal, your appetite is lacking." The sudden intensity of his gaze left her grimacing as she predicted what would come next. "We'll have to tell at her at some point or it'll be obvious on its own," he pointed out. She lifted her free hand to press it against her forehead.

"I know, I know," she acknowledged. "But the idea of days, possibly weeks of knowing looks, approving nods and _winks."_ His lips lifted in a half-smile, amused by the very un-Laura-like whine.

"I'll agree her… enthusiasm… can be a bit… overwhelming at times," he concurred. Then lifted a brow and added, "But perhaps better that than weeks or months of her being put out with the both of us for not bringing her into the fold, so to speak, much sooner." That logic earned another groan. Cautiously, she tested her tea, then dared a sip. When half a minute passed and she still hadn't volunteered anything further, he gave a little push. "Lau-ra…" She raised and dropped her hand in defeat.

"We'll tell her this afternoon," she reluctantly agreed. A smile lit his face.

"Think about it this way: Telling Mildred can't possibly be worse that it was to tell your mother," he teased. She gave him a tight smile, then focused an inordinate amount of attention on her tea."You _have_ told your mother, haven't you?" Her eyes sidled away from his critical gaze. "Lau-ra," he drew out her name. Her eyes met his, but she stubbornly refused to answer. "When do you intend to tell Abigail?" he pressed. With a frustrated sigh, she lowered the cup and gave him a defiant look.

"I was thinking in two, three—"

"Weeks?" he hastened to speculate. That wouldn't be too terribly bad given Abigail lived in Connecticut. Certainly Abigail wouldn't be popping by for a visit with her youngest daughter only to find her heavy with child. And if Laura needed a little longer to digest, to—

"Years," she corrected. He did a double take before his face settled into a disapproving frown.

"Years?" he drew out the word. "Now, Laura—"

Whatever it was he'd intended to say was cut short as she made another mad dash for the bathroom.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Here goes nothin'," Laura mumbled. Perched on the corner of Remington's desk, she stabbed at the intercom button. "Mildred, send the phones to the answering service and come in here, please." Hanging up when Mildred confirmed the instructions, she gave Remington a look of dread as she fingered her neck. "Why do I _know_ I'm going to regret this?" she asked.

"Not to worry, Laura," he assured, as he stood then adjusted his tie. He reached for his jacket on the back of the chair. "Once her initial enthusiasm wears off, all will be back to normal."

"It's that _'initial enthusiasm'_ that worries me," she reminded him. He gave her a quick grin and lift of his brows in the moment before a sharp rap and a door swinging open heralded Mildred's arrival. Her eyes darted back-and-forth between the pair, as Remington propped his hip against the desk next to Laura and crossed his arms.

"Have a seat, will you Mildred?" Mildred fidgeted nervously, but took a seat in front of them. The glint in his eyes told Laura he intended to have a bit of fun with this. Advanced payment on all _the looks_ they'd receive for who-knew-how-long? She fought to hold back her smile.

"Is something wrong?" Mildred asked, her eyes continuing to flit back-and-forth between them.

"More… shocking, I think," Laura corrected, looking at Remington for confirmation. He was pursing his lips, as if in thought, before she even finished.

"Life altering, even," he concurred, exchanging an amused look with Laura.

"You're not closing the Agency, are you, Boss?" Laura's head snapped around to look at the older woman.

"Why would you even _think_ that, Mildred?" The idea was so preposterous that she'd not taken her usual care in how she spoke, and the sudden narrowing of Mildred's eyes warned her tone had run too sharp. She held up a hand apology. "I'm sorry, Mildred," she offered sincerely but then couldn't help adding, "But _why_?"

"Business has been down some since Mr. Steele left—"

" _Down_ ," Laura stressed, "But not non-existent. The Agency's bills were paid, we managed to put a little back. Even if we had been running in the red, which we weren't, we have enough tucked back in the discretionary fund to carry us for half a year, at least."

"Shocking… life altering," Mildred reminded, then jumped to her feet when the meaning became apparent. Her disapproving eyes swept over Remington. "You planning on leaving again?" She plunked her hands on hips.

"No, no," he answered, holding his hands up, as though holding her off, "I imagine I'll be about the next couple of decades, at least."

"Mildred," Laura stepped in before the woman could hazard another guess, "Mr. Steele's not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere. We're not closing the Agency. Every-"

"Well, we might wish to consider it," Remington stepped in to suggest. "At least for a few weeks."

"It is perfect timing, in a way, our slow time of the year," she mulled. "I'll think about it."

"A vacation? That's what all this… this… _mysterious_ talking is about?" Mildred exclaimed. "Shocking for Miss Holt, maybe—" Laura crossed her arms again, and her jaw fell open.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded to know, insulted at the implication.

"Mildred does have a point," Remington grinned. His smile faded and he tugged at his ear, nervously, when Laura turned to glare at him.

"I've closed the Agency before. I take vacations," she defended.

"Closing for five days every other year for a command Christmas performance at your mother's does not a vacation make, Lau-ra," he countered.

"Need I remind you that if I hadn't closed the office for ten-days not too long ago, that there would be no need to close it again in a few months?" The reminder hadn't served the purpose she'd intended. Instead of squirming with discomfort, a wide smile spread across his face and he wagged a playful pair of brows at her. The curious statement captured Mildred's attention and she swiveled her head towards Remington just in time to see his brows wag. Curiosity piqued, she stood, silent.

"But what a reason to close, hmmm?" Pressing her lips closed in an attempt to squelch her answering smile, she pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, her brown eyes glimmering humor. Mildred automatically turned to watch Laura.

"Remember that enthusiasm when you realize you've gotten yourself more than you bargained for," she warned, drily, struggling mightily to hold a straight face. He smelled the faint scent of a dare… and delighted in it. Under Mildred's watchful eye, he leaned just a touch towards Laura. He peered intently into her eyes as he held a pair of brows aloft.

"You seem to forget, Miss Holt," he spoke low in his throat, "I'm a man who enjoys a good challenge." A dimpled smile lit up her face. Mimicking his action, she leaned slightly towards him, then gave him an impertinent lift of her brow.

"One word, Mr. Steele…" she gave his tie a playful tug "… Crusoe."

Mildred's eyes grew wide as saucers and she clapped her hands against her cheeks when the puzzle pieces fell into place. Laura's malaise and lack of appetite. Needing a vacation because of a vacation. _Crusoe._

"Miss Holt? Are you _pregnant?_!" she asked with wonder. A pair of heads turned in tandem to regard the woman, and Laura missed the mischief dancing in a pair of blue eyes.

"Come now, Mildred," he scolded, watching Laura from the corner of his eye. "This is Miss Holt we're speaking off." He sniffed then added with a pout, "A case of immaculate conception if ever I've heard of one." Laura's jaw hung slack, while Mildred's eyes nearly bugged out of her head.

"I've always suspected your ego would inflate to god-like proportions one day," Laura retorted with a roll of her eyes at him. Unperturbed by the glancing insult, he flashed her a cheeky grin.

"You mean—" Mildred began, unable to hide the aghast tone of her voice.

"Ignore Mr. Steele, Mildred," Laura insisted, airily, with the sweep of a dismissive hand towards the man. "Yes, I'm pregnant. No, it wasn't planned." She heaved a long sigh, feigning regret. "And yes, he's the father."

"Oh, Miss Holt!" Mildred cried out, grabbing Laura and yanking her into a hug. There was a good chance she'd have landed none too gracefully on her derriere had Remington not grasped her upper arm when she was tugged off the desk in Mildred's enthusiasm. "Chief!" Laura enjoyed the faint blush that suffused his skin when Mildred smothered him in a hug. "How did this happen?! I mean, not that I'm not thrilled for you both, but how?"

"Why do people keep asking that question?" Laura lamented. "I can promise you it wasn't by immaculate conception." Mildred had the decency to appear mortified by how the question sounded.

"When's the baby due," she hurriedly moved toward a safer topic.

"Right after Christmas, actually." This from Remington. Mildred's hands returned to her cheeks.

"A baby!" she repeated, delighted. "No wonder you've been tired." A thought occurred to her and she narrowed her eyes on Remington. "And you just let me go on and on about how worried I was about Miss Holt's health," she scolded with a wag of her finger. He wilted under the censure from the mother-like figure.

"Now, Mildred, you know how Laura is," he protested. "She'd have been carping in my ear for God only knows how long should I have disclosed the news without her approval."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot," Laura retorted, drily. Mildred gave the pair a sly look.

"So, should we be expecting another announcement shortly?" she hinted. The question drew a frown from Laura.

"I'd expect that question from my Mother, but not from _you_ , Mildred," Laura answered, embarrassed by the blatant reference to marriage and feeling suddenly put on the spot. "As far as I know, a woman doesn't need to be _married—"_

"Never you mind that, Mildred," Remington stepped in with a firm voice and a pointing finger, halting Laura in her tracks. The last thing he needed was Laura getting all fired up about being a fierce, independent woman capable of taking on any task no matter how large or small on her own. Mildred offered him a chagrined look and then she was off.

"There's so much to do! You'll need to select designs for the shower invitations and the birth announcements. Lists! We'll needs list of everything you're going to need: Diapers, wipes, ointments and salves, baby wash… Are you going to use an infant tub or do you plan to give the baby their bath in the sink?" Laura only blinked in answer, having no idea. "Never mind. Towels, wash clothes, receiving blankets, burp clothes, sheets, blankets." She clapped her hands together, exhilarated. "The mobile! And bumpers and a skirt for the crib…"

Laura and Remington stared, both transfixed and terrified as the list got longer…

And longer…

And longer…


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"Laura!" Remington exclaimed, a smile lighting his face as he swung the door to his flat fully open. "This is a surprise. Come in, come in," he swung an arm towards the living room. Brows gathering, he sniffed at her when she walked past. _Yeesh._ She smelled rather like some of the dives he'd haunt now and again when looking to a wager a bit on pool. "Have a good evening?"

"Did you know Mildred was a fan of _wrestling?_ " she asked, voice pitched higher than normal. He tipped a brow up at her.

"I'm fairly certain I've neither any idea what Mildred's recreational proclivities are nor do I wish to." She gave him a puzzled look, then frowned and dismissed him with a flick of her hand when she understood it.

"When she said girls' night out, I pictured dinner somewhere, a movie maybe." He closed the door and followed her towards the kitchen. "Not a wrestling meet… game… match… whatever you call it. I was envisioning a dark, cool theater… getting lost in whatever tragic romance it was that she picked out, not a hot, stuffy, smoke-filled auditorium reeking of…" she shriveled her nose "…dirty socks and stale sweat." She swung open the refrigerator door to peruse its offerings.

"I take it dinner wasn't to your satisfaction either?" he inquired, as she bit into tomato wedge while she continued to forage.

"What dinner? We went directly from the office to 'main event' because otherwise we wouldn't get seats close enough 'to smell the sweat.'" She peeked around the door at him. "Trust me when I say we could have smelled the sweat in the rafters. The only thing I've had to eat was a couple handfuls of under salted popcorn." Her shoulders slumped and she returned her attention to the fridge. "God, I just want a nice, cold glass of wine." Grasping her hand, he eased her away from the sub-zero and nudged past her.

"Since that's not presently an option, how about a tall, cool glass of tea, hmmm?" He pressed the glass into her hands once it was poured, then began removing items from the refrigerator shelves and drawers, dropping them one at a time on the island. With a tip of her head and a shrug of a shoulder, she boosted herself up to sit on the island to sip her tea. If he wanted to make her something to eat, who was she to stop him? He dropped two slices of wheat bread into the toaster, then turned to the stove. He dared to peek at her, sidelong, from beneath his lashes. "Laura… Where are we now?" he dared to ask, as he dropped slices of bacon into the pan.

"I guess that depends on what you mean," she replied. He suppressed the flash of irritation that passed through him. Was she being coy? As many times as she'd accused him of never wishing to discuss their personal relationship, she was quite adept at avoiding the subject, as well, when it suited her. Setting the spatula on the spoon rest, he faced her. Crossing his arms, he leveled a pair of intense blue eyes upon her.

"I mean: Are you staying tonight? Are we committing to a future with one another? Do we intend to live together, to raise our child together?" She blinked her eyes several times as he peppered her with questions. _He_ wanted to discuss their relationship? She gave a small shake of her head, to clear her muddled mind.

"In answer to the first: I'm open to doing so, if that's what you'd like," she answered honestly, cautiously. She gave him a rueful look, then added, "Although I'm not sure why you'd want to subject yourself to a repeat of this morning. As for the rest? How can I answer when I'm not quite sure what it is that _you_ want?" A lift and drop of her hands accompanied a drawn out, exasperated sigh.

"I thought I made what I wanted clear the night I returned from France," he answered, in a carefully modulated tone. He continued to speak as he resumed making her meal. "I wish to share my life with you, to make a home with you. I was under the impression that although we've things to work through, you wished the same." Her eyes skimmed over him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the strain on his face.

"I do," she insisted. Her brows drew together in thought. Could she be honest with him? How honest? "But I have to ask myself: Would you want the same things, if not for the baby?" The hands laying thin slices of tomato on the now golden toast stilled for a split second, then resumed their task. Bacon topped the lettuce and tomato, mayonnaise was spread then the sandwich sliced in two.

"Shall we adjourn to the living room?" Once they'd settled at opposite ends of the couch, she hasn't hesitated before taking a bite of her sandwich.

"It's good," she praised, taking another large bite. Humor sparkled in his eyes.

"I suspect you'd say the same about your own cooking right about now," he teased lightly. He grew suddenly somber, and shifting uncomfortably, dropped his head, finding something on his lounge pants of great interest. The behavior was odd enough to hold her silence while her eyes lingered upon him. "I think some part of me knew from the start," he spoke quietly.

"Knew what?" she asked in a soft voice meant to soothe, lest she scare him off.

That evening as he'd sat at home certain he'd not see Laura on the night, he'd been overcome by loneliness and the thought of spending many more future nights in the same state was enough to make him vow that he'd find a way to convince Laura they should forge a life together. He yearned to listen to her puttering about their home of a night, to hear her preparing for the day of a morning. He wanted to watch as their belongings merged to create a warm yet elegant home. He longed to shoo her out of their kitchen and away from his pots and pans, to have her banish him to another room to watch a movie as she poured over the accounts. He needed to know no matter how difficult or enjoyable the day, that they'd begin and end it at home together. He was emphatically of mind that they'd spent far too much time apart in the last nine months, and he was loathe to give up any more.

A small part of him recognized that if he could just get Laura to commit to this next step, then all else would fall quite naturally in line. Once Laura Holt committed to something, she'd move mountains to see it through. There'd be no more running by her, for he believed to his very bones that she'd never do to someone else what Wilson had done to her. As for himself? He'd silently promised that each day he would show her by deed that he was there to stay until she finally had faith that was true.

He wanted Laura to be his, first and foremost.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't have visions of he and Laura in bed, as their child slept down the hall from them.

For a man who'd once sworn to never need anything, anywhere, and most especially anyone, while he hadn't been paying attention he'd somehow come to need it all: her, their child, a home together.

It was his earlier resolve to lay himself open if that was what it took to convince her, that allowed him to find the words.

"I've spent a lifetime wondering who I am, where I came from," he reflected. He finally braved looking at her. "I think a part of me knew from the moment we met, that this was where I was meant to be… _who_ I was meant to be. I want to build a life with you, Laura, because of you." His eyes dropped to the vicinity of her stomach, then lifted them to look at her again, a lopsided grin lighting his face. "Our little Crusoe is merely a bonus."

"Crusoe, huh? You do realize this baby could be a girl, right?" Sandwich finished, she set her plate on the coffee table.

"Mmmm, I think I'd prefer it actually," he shared. "Just a… placeholder, so to speak, Laura. I assure you, I've no inclination to have a son named Crusoe Steele." He gave an exaggerated shudder to emphasize the point.

"A placeholder, huh?" she mulled aloud, with a tilt of her head. With a shrug, she stood up and walked towards his bedroom. "In that case, our little Crusoe and I are going to take a shower. I smell like smoke and gym socks." She paused in the doorway and turned to look back at him. "A girl?" Her voice was raised in surprise even after she'd she on the thought for half of a minute. "I was under the impression all men wanted their first born to be a boy."

"To carry on the family name or to toss a ball with," he pointed out. A wistful smile softened his face. "I, on the other hand, find myself rather fond of the idea of a little girl who believes her Da hung the stars in the heavens." She snorted in answer and rolled her eyes.

"I see. So if you can't be the new Duke of Rutherford and have the flocks fawning over 'Your Grace,' you may as well elevate yourself to god-like status for our child," she ribbed.

"Don't be absurd, Laura," he scolded, feigning insult, "I'd never suggest such a thing to little Crusoe. If, however, she comes to that conclusion about her Da on her own, who am I to disillusion her?"

On that note, with a dimple flashing in her cheek, Laura gave him a final roll of her eyes, then turned and disappeared into his room.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"The Remington Steele Agency. Krebs speaking," Mildred answered the Agency phone in a clear, brisk voice.

"Good morning, Ms. Krebs," Daniel's cultured voice reverberated over the line, drawing a bright smile to Mildred's face. She'd enjoyed, much to her surprise, working with her co-conspirator. "I know it's on the early side of the day, but I'm unable to reach Harry. Is he in the office perchance?"

"Arrived with the birds," she confirmed. "And boy, does he have some news for you!" She simply couldn't help blurting that little tidbit out. Daniel's warm laugh sounded in her ear.

"Decided to shackle himself for eternity to his Miss Holt has he?" he speculated.

"I'd be shouting the news from the rooftops if he had," she sighed, then added optimistically, "But hopefully that's only a matter of time now. We did a good thing, Chalmers."

"Then it would seem a celebration is in order," he suggested. "I'll be arriving in LA on Sunday evening. Care to have lunch with me Monday?" Her eyes automatically shifted to Laura's closed office door. No matter what happened in Cannes, she suspected the woman behind that door would be less than happy to hear of Daniel's impending visit. She shook off her concern.

"Sure," she agreed easily. "Lemme get the Boss for you." Pressing the hold button, she selected the intercom.

In his office, Remington eased down his paper to glare at the phone from where the offensive sound came. With a glance at the door to Laura's office, not for the first time that morning, he wondered what in the devil it was she was doing, leaving him to fend off the random questions of clients. With no little irritation, he folded his paper, lay it on the desk then reached for the telephone receiver.

"I thought I said I wasn't to be interrupted, Mildred," he reminded her, although he had no idea why he'd bothered given this was the third such interruption.

"Daniel Chalmers is holding on line one," she answered, her short clipped tone relaying that she was anything but pleased with how he'd spoken to her. He acknowledged there would be some apologizing to do later, but for now…

"Thank you, Mildred," he dismissed, then switched to line one, a wide smile on his face. "Daniel! I must say, this is a surprise." He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the corner of the desk.

"Harry, my boy!" Daniel greeted equally profusely. "I hear you have a bit of news to share with me." Remington's brow furrowed in thought.

"I do?" For the life of him, he couldn't think of what.

"So your Ms. Krebs tells me…" Daniel hinted. _Ah, that explains it._

"Laura and I told Mildred about the babe yesterday. To say the woman is excited is an understatement," he explained, while making a mental note to remind Mildred such hints did not need to be dropped to Laura's mother or sister, lest she wished two hysterical women showing up upon their doorstep. "Tell me, Daniel, shouldn't you and Felicia be in the midst of whatever scheme it was the two of you were hatching?"

"I'm afraid we ran headlong into a group of miners committed to assassinating the Earl of Claridge." Remington's feet hit the floor with a thump, and he leaned forward, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Daniel, tell me you didn't—"

"Of course not, Harry," Daniel cut off his protégé, "You know how I detest violence. Nevertheless, things are a bit hot here at the moment, so I thought I'd pay Los Angeles a visit, stay a spell."

"My home is your home," Remington offered, even as he lifted a hand to gnaw at the thumbnail. He'd never turn Daniel away, but it would certainly put an unexpected kink in his plans with Laura. How long until the woman began masticating on the thought of the people from his past that might pop by, looking for a place to kip should they share a home?

"While I appreciate the offer, my boy, I'm afraid we'd just been under one another's feet after a couple days in that flat of yours," Daniel declined. "A realtor has found me a little month-to-month rental on the beach. I simply can't give up my view."

"Still, the offer stands." Relaxing, he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up again. "When should I expect you?"

"No later than Monday." Daniel smiled mischievously. "I Imagine that should give you plenty of time to prepare Linda for my arrival. We both know how much she enjoys my visits." Remington turned and looked at her office door, then groaned aloud.

"Yes," he drew the word out, "There is that. Well, no time like the present," he announced, dropping his feet back to the floor. "If I tell her now, she may have simmered down by the time you get here."

* * *

Straightening his tie, Remington emerged from his office. Mildred's scowl was enough to remind him he'd a bit of groveling to do.

"Sorry, darling. My behavior was inexcusable," he apologized , leaning across the desk to buss her on the cheek. With a fond smile on her face, she patted his cheek.

"Aw, it's alright, Boss." Straightening, he indicated Laura's office door with a thumb hitched over his shoulder.

"What has Miss Holt occupied this morning?" He missed the look of panic that passed through her eyes.

"Awww, nothing special," she answered with a dismissive wave of her hand, hoping she seemed casual, "Just wrapping up a few things." He grinned at her.

"She does love her paperwork," he answered, pleased, "Always puts her in a good mood." With three long strides he was at the door and reaching for the knob.

Mildred wilted in her chair, knowing her goose was cooked.

The smile Remington had plastered on his face before stepping through Laura's office door, faltered then faded, when he spied the man sitting across from her at her desk. Laura came automatically to her feet at his entrance.

"Crunch Kramer, Remington Steele." Kramer's face bore a wary look at Remington's arrival, whereas Remington, much to Laura's surprise, appeared openly hostile.

"Yes, we've had the pleasure," he answered, giving Kramer a look and clasping his hands in front of him, clearly with no intention of shaking the other man's hands. "Uh, would you excuse us a moment?" He quirked a finger at Laura. "Miss Holt?" He walked across the room to his office door and swung it open. She held her tongue, looking up at him expectantly when he closed the door behind them.

"Laura, are you aware I've already turned Mr. Kramer down." Her brows lifted in surprise.

"You what?"

"Two days ago. You can still see his shoe prints in the carpet. Ask Mildred." Understanding dawned, and she marched across the room to the door to the reception area, opening it.

"Okay, Millie, front and center…"

* * *

Remington checked the pan of manicotti warming in the oven with a hum of approval. The table was set for a quiet dinner for two, their salad was chilling and the main course would be ready in fifteen minutes or so.

The day had started on a rocky note when Remington had discovered Laura interviewing Crunch Kramer, the wrestling star whom Remington had turned away only two days prior. Laura had been less than pleased to discover Mildred had played her and Remington against each other, never informing her he'd already turned down the case when she'd agreed to speak with the man. Nevertheless, she'd decided to take on the case, her reminder that 'you may be the boss, but I'm still in charge' – in the presence of Mildred, no less – having the potential to turn the day on its ear and to start a rollicking fight between the pair of investigators. He'd never said the words, but Laura had been quick to recognize by the look on his face that they'd need more equality in their professional life unless their personal life was to suffer. While it had been neither the time nor the place to discuss the matter, Laura had done her best to assuage his dinged ego by suggesting a quiet evening at his flat.

He puffed out a breath as he picked up two glasses of iced tea, inspecting the table he'd laid as he passed through the dining room into the living room. Flowers, candles, a goblet filled with bread sticks. Linen napkins, his best flatware. It would do, he approved.

The moment she'd rested her flatted palm against his chest, the tips of her fingers caressing it, he'd been putty in her hands, and she'd known it. But how could he not be? The gentle touch. Her warm brown eyes held wide. The soft, lyrical voice. The promise of time for only them.

Now, he set their glasses on coasters on the coffee table, before taking a seat in the corner of the couch.

She'd bloody well shocked him, she had, when shortly after she'd arrived, she'd taken the phone off the hook. Seeing the disbelieving look on his face, she'd merely shrugged a shoulder.

"We've earned it."

For how many years had he been telling the woman that they needed to take the phone off the hook, that she should consider hiring an answering service, so they might conduct a personal life without the inference of their professional one? That she had done so now left him at once both baffled and touched. It was, in his eyes, a deed that expressed her commitment to the partnership he held most dear.

"Audrey," Laura spoke aloud, startling him from his thoughts. Impulsively, he reached for her hand, and gave it a suggestive tug. Only when he sat with back pressed to arm rest and she reclined against him, did he answer.

" _The Lady in Lake,_ Robert Montgomery, Audrey Totter, Lloyd Nolan, MGM, 1947," he rattled off. "Phillip Marlowe is hired to find the wife of a publisher who has presumably run off to Mexico. Soon, murder and mayhem ensue."

"Alright, no to Audrey then," she answered, drily. "How about Crystal? It has such a… sparkly… feel to it."

"Same movie. Crystal Kingsby, the missing wife, played by…" he snapped his fingers several times, "Ellay Mort." She sighed in frustration and returned to the book in her hand.

"Cathleen?"

"A right proper Irish name," he commented. She turned her head to look up at him.

"It is? I would never have guessed. It doesn't sound very Irish," she observed.

"And yet it is. The Irish derivation of Catherine to be precise, for Saint Catherine." She searched her memory and came up blank.

"St. Catherine?"

"From an old Irish folktale." He rubbed at his face. "How does it go? Ah, yes. During a great famine Satan arrived, offering food to the starving in exchange for their souls. Catherine convinced Satan to take her soul instead. He agreed. Upon her death Satan came to collect her debt, but God intervened saying such a selfless act should not lead to eternal damnation." She turned forward again, and nuzzled her head into his shoulder, a smile playing on her lips.

"What a lovely story," she commented. "Cathleen," she tried the name on again for size.

" _Out of the Past._ "

"Yes, it is," she agree. "I like the—"

"Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer, Kirk Douglas, RKO, 1947. A private detective is hired—" He couldn't help his short laugh when she positively growled. Slapping the book closed she sat up and cast a critical eye on him.

"Maybe we should start by asking if there is a single name you can think of that you can't attach a movie reference to." He held out a pair of hands, palms up.

"Merely coincidence, Laura. I'm sure I'd be unable to come up with a reference for the vast majority of the names in that book of yours." She considered him at length, then opened to a random page.

"Peggy."

" _The Woman on the Beach_ , Joan Bennett, Robert Ryan, Charles Bickford, RKO, 1947. Really, Laura, why would we wish to name our child that anyway." He feigned a shudder. "Yeesh." Her chest rose and dropped before she selected another page.

"Candy."

"You can't be serious. Candy Steele?"

"Mr. Steele." She drew out his name in warning.

"Speaking of names…" She lifted her eyes heavenward.

"Fine," she snapped. " _Remington_ ," she drew his name in warning again. This time it was he who sighed.

" _Pickup on South Street,_ Richard Widmark—"

"Lily."

" _Kiss Me Deadly."_

"Gwen."

" _High School Confidential."_ Lips thinning, she decided to change tactics.

"Russell."

" _It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World."_

"Frank."

"Really, Laura, if you're not even going to try…" he grinned. Her back straightened and she scowled at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Bogie and Bacall? _Key Largo?_ We just watched it last week. Right here on this very couch." She crinkled her nose at the reminder.

"Well, we'll never find a name for the baby – girl _or_ boy – if we keep going down this road. So I'll make you a deal," she negotiated. "You don't mention a single word about a name's connection with the movies and should the baby end up with a movie related name, you can gloat _silently_ that you managed to pull it off. If I connect the name to a movie, however, the name's off the table. What do you say?" For long seconds she considered stomping out of the apartment when he offered her a smug smile.

"I can live with that," he agreed, as he stood. "Shall we start with our salads?" he suggested, offering her a hand. Setting aside the book, she took his hand then took the lead to the dining room.

As he fetched their salads from the refrigerator he began considering names he might be able to slip past her.

* * *

All talk about the baby had been set aside during the meal. Intent on a bit of romance, Remington had seated himself catty cornered to Laura, rather than taking his normal seat across the table. Throughout the meal he'd graced her with tender looks and loving caresses that left shivers skittering over her skin, and her blood heating. When he'd set aside his napkin and had once again held his hand out to her, she'd taken his hand without hesitation, then, with a smile over her shoulder, she led him towards the bedroom.

She was itchy and the deepening blue of his eyes told her he was more than ready to scratch that itch.

She let out a soft squeak when she found herself suddenly spun around. A smile lit her face and her brown eyes glimmered up at him by the time she stopped in the frame of his arms. She slung her arms low around his hips and gracefully fell into step with him to slowly dance.

Apparently he had romance in mind. She smiled to herself at the thought. As if he didn't normally have romance in mind. Rarely had they just gone just straight to the main event. A night out, dinner, dancing. A night in, fire burning, wine slowly flowing, quiet conversation filled with glancing kisses, light touches.

There were times she'd wanted to tell him to just get on with it already.

But on evenings such as this? She'd allow him to savor, to build the moment. The rewards for her patience would be… divine.

She blinked her eyes and left her thoughts when he stepped just the slightest bit closer. Her hands already brushed against the firm contours of his bum as they danced and now the proof of his building desire pressed against her intermittently as they moved.

The quiet passion continued to build, his smiling eyes telling her he knew precisely the effect he was having upon her.

"Not exactly a shabby day's work. Darryl behind bars for the mistaken identity murder of Arthur Shelby," he said in a soft voice. He was toying with her now, prolonging the moment even longer.

"Are you sure his alibi won't hold up?"

"Mm-hm." His lips hovered close to hers. "Now on to more urgent matters." His lips touched hers, whisper soft, then departed. The corner of her lips twitched. He was teasing her, letting the anticipation continue to build.

"Pleased?" she asked, her lashes lowered as her eyes lingered on the lips so near to her own.

"Case closed," he hummed, "You in my arms. What more could I ask for?" He lowered his head, settled his lips over hers. They continued to dance, the kiss deepening. His hand flattened against the base of her neck, pressed her closer, so they were connected from chest to hip and his tongue slipped past her lips, only briefly. Her hand caressed the firm cheek of his bottom, a suggestion of what that 'more' might be. He ended the kiss, his lips still hovering.

"Mmmm. I think you just answered my question." He kissed her again.

They froze, their lips parted, when the doorbell of his flat buzzed. Lips still close hers, he regarded the door from beneath his lashes.

"Don't answer it," she whispered. This time it was she who kissed him.

Buzz-buzz-buzz-buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

This time, they both stiffened. Whoever it was had no intention of departing. Unhappily he released her from his arms and walked to the door, swinging it open.

"Yes," he asked, before he saw the person standing behind that door, his voice ringing with irritation.

"Mildred!" the couple protested in unison, as their secretary and private investigator in training bustled through the door. Laura threw up her hands in exasperation and flopped down on the arm of the couch.

"Your phone's out of order," Mildred announced, hustling past Remington.

"For a _reason_ , Mildred," he retorted, pointedly, closing the door. He shoved a hand into his pocket, shifting the material of his slacks, trying to conceal the evidence of the ardor Laura had stirred.

"Turn on the TV. Maybe they'll do a recap on the late show," she ordered, completely oblivious of the couples mounting agitation.

"A recap of _what,_ Mildred?" Laura didn't even bother to hide her annoyance. "Couldn't this wait until morning, on company time?"

"I'm telling you," she steamrolled past them towards the dining room, "I am so consumed with the Crunch Kramer case that I forgot to eat." She plucked a breadstick from the goblet on the table and took a big bite.

"Ah, consumed by what, Mildred?" he inquired as he and Laura moved to stand next to one another in the doorway of the dining room, Remington tucking his lower half discretely behind Laura.

"The thought that you nailed the wrong guy for murder!"

* * *

Laura collapsed on top of Remington, panting, her entire body still quivering as his body did some shuddering of its own beneath her. Wanting to keep her close, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the fresh scent of her damp hair.

Mildred had been right. He'd nailed the wrong man. The real murderer was now behind bars, and the intended victim all along, Whitney Chambers, had been rescued.

When they'd arrived back at his flat, Remington had already written off the night as a loss. It was long after midnight, and between stopping a killer then answering endless questions from the LAPD, the night had grown long. At least they'd closed the case, which always put Laura in a good mood. He'd thought it might be the ideal time to announce Daniel's impending arrival, but she'd had other ideas, wrapping her body around his, threading her fingers through his hair, and tugging his head downwards.

Bodies still joined, her fingers toyed in his hair, her lips brushed against his chest, his neck, while his hand glided up and down her back rhythmically, his other arm still wrapped tightly around her. Long minutes passed before her quiet voice broke the air.

"Let's do it." The hand on her back stilled, then slid upwards to tangle in her hair, easing her head upwards to he could see her face.

"Are you sure, Laura?" Hope made his blue eyes burn bright. Her brown eyes met his and held them with confidence.

"Yeah, I am. We'll never know if we can make this work unless we take a risk." A tender smile lifted his lips.

"Let the chips fall where they may?" he offered, trying to keep the moment somewhat light, lest she reconsider. She palmed his cheek in her hand.

"Something like that," she agreed. With that, she settled her head against his shoulder again.

Later, as she lay sprawled across his body, sleep finally having stolen her away, he closed his eyes and silently thanked whatever it was that had convinced her to give them a chance to forge a life together.

Now, only one question remained, and he wondered how he'd convince her to say yes to that as well.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

On Saturday, Remington and Laura moved to her loft to spend the weekend together. Over the past week, she'd received two calls from potential buyers wishing to schedule a tour of the loft. She'd scheduled one for Sunday afternoon, the other for Wednesday at lunch. She had spent little time at the loft across the past week, and it was in need of a light cleaning in anticipation of the visitors.

Remington had more than willingly pitched in on tidying up, dusting, sweeping and mopping. In his eyes, the sooner they could sell the loft and his flat, the quicker they could establish a home together.

As they puttered about, he'd worked up the courage to announce Daniel's impending arrival, and had steeled him for the eyes flashing with anger and the glacial tones he was certain would follow. Then, much as she had by taking that phone off the hook, for being cross with Mildred the evening before, and for agreeing to cohabitate – as Jeffries had once referred to it – she'd gone and shocked the hell out of him again.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy that."

That was it. Five words. No anger. No suspicions.

He'd been unable to help himself.

"Laura, are you ill?" he'd blurted out before he could stop the flow of words. Her musical laughter wafted through the loft, before she'd stilled where she was cleaning the kitchen counters and looked at him.

"You didn't return to the life when you had every opportunity to do so," she pointed out. It was no secret her greatest fear, when it came to Daniel, was that he'd lure 'Harry' back. Then she shrugged and resumed scrubbing. "He sent you home to me."

Well, that response had him crossing the room and snatching her into his arms for a grateful, lustly little kiss.

On Sunday morning, over breakfast, the couple perused the LA Time's real estate listings. It quickly became apparent to Laura that some discussion was in order.

"I'm not moving to the suburbs," she'd adamantly announced. He was inclined to agree. Except for his early childhood when he'd been shuttled from family-to-family, no matter where on the globe he'd found himself, he'd always lived in a city.

"Mmmm, I'd prefer not to either. A shame, though. We could get far more for our money."

"Maybe we need to decide what exactly it is we wish our money to buy," she suggested.

"Two bedrooms, certainly. Room for your piano." She nodded her head in agreement.

"A kitchen for you." He hummed his agreement. "Plenty of closet space in the master bedroom."

"A proper dining room to entertain," he added.

"A backyard for when the baby is older."

"A bathtub large enough for two," he suggested with a waggle of his brows. Her laughter trickled through the room.

"High ceilings, plenty of light. A garage for the Auburn." He looked around the room then nodded at the far wall.

"Room for your barre." Her eyes followed his.

"Yes, I nearly forgot," she concurred, thoughtfully. "A fireplace."

"Mmmm. A must."

"I can't imagine it will be very difficult to find what we're looking for."

The twenty-something sculptor arrived to view the loft and thirty minutes later left promising an offer in the next few days. She'd been drawn to eclectic neighborhood and the space and light the loft offered was exactly what she had been searching for.

That afternoon, he volunteered to accompany Laura on a shopping trip. Her clothes were growing a bit too snug for comfort, and she'd tired of the now daily routine of trying on and discarding a half-dozen outfits each morning before she found one that would zip or didn't pull too much on her swelling abdomen. Unwilling to surrender yet to the call of maternity clothes, she purchased, instead, a selection of dresses ranging from form hugging knits to flowing silks that would complement jackets she already owned.

Afterwards, as they walked through the crowded Beverly Center, they did a bit of window shopping for the baby, pleased to find they were of the same mind when it came to the style of clothing they were drawn to for their little one. Then, at one store featuring nursery furniture, bedding, and all would one need to travel with a baby, they gave into the temptation and stepped inside. There were fascinated, and overwhelmed, by both the number of demands one infant had… and the endless variety of items sold to meet those needs.

Laura was unable to resist the impulse to buy a gender-neutral baby book which allotted a dozen pages to pre-natal highlights, while Remington was utterly unable to resist the sterling silver rattle whose gleam had beckoned him to the display case where it was secured.

"Perhaps the babe won't be born with a silver spoon in its mouth," he rationalized, as she stood shaking her head, "But a silver rattle in hand may bear the babe well."

That evening, having returned to his flat, she recline on one side of the couch, her feet in his lap where he sat the other side. A fire burned as _Gone With the Wind_ played out on the television screen and he massaged her feet, although his eyes were peeled to the screen. She occasionally suggested a name as she fingered through the book. After the sixth suggestion, she took pause as a thought occurred to her.

"Would you like us to consider Irish names?" The question caught him by surprise and he dwelled on the question for a while before answering.

"Now that you've mentioned it, I find I'm rather fond of the idea," he admitted. He'd been surprised by the sharp pang in his chest that her question had inspired. No matter how much distance he'd put between himself and the isle over the last decades, his ties to Ireland still beckoned him from time-to-time. Once one had lived amongst the rolling green hills where sheep had freely roamed, had wakened each day to misty mornings, the land was always a part of them. That even if only by name his child was tied to the country of his birth? He had no words.

"Do you have anything in mind?"

"Mmmmm. As a matter of fact I do. For a lad, Sean." She lay the open book against her chest and folded her hands on top of it, her eyes focused on him.

"Does the name hold special meaning for you?" He nodded his head to the side as he switched to her other foot.

"There was a boy at a home I'd landed in for two months, maybe three. I don't imagine he was more than sixteen, seventeen as he hadn't finished secondary yet," he shared, his voice telling her he was somewhere far away. "The father was a decent enough chap when he wasn't on the drink…" he chuckled wryly, "Which, believe me, wasn't very often. He wasn't a good man when he was drunk , Laura, prone to rages in which furniture and crockery were thrown, regardless of what child might be in its path. And his hand," he shook his head. "A wrong look, answering a question too quickly, answering a question too slowly, and you were bound to wake the following the day sore one place or another."

"That's awful," she commented quietly.

"Certainly not an environment I'd want my child living in, no, but I suspect it was fairly common in those days given the number of homes where I'd encountered a heavy hand," he philosophized. "Times were hard, and the strain of supporting a family seemed to wear many a man down."

"That doesn't make it acceptable to hit a child, to throw things at them."

"I can't disagree, but that doesn't change what was." She nodded her head in agreement.

"And Sean?"

"Even at such a young age, he'd taken on the role of the children's protector. It was better than even odds that he'd find a way to calm his father. And if not?" He tilted his head back and forth again. "it'd be him who'd comfort whichever child it was who'd earned the father's disapproval. I've wondered over the years whatever came of him."

"Sean, huh?" she mulled. "The only Sean I can think of related to movies is Connery, and you made your opinion of his last Bond movie very… very, clear."

"Really, Laura," he sniffed, "I'd make a more convincing Bond. The man's sixty if a day!"

"I thought he cut quite the dashing figure," she replied, intentionally tweaking him. "Tall, slim, dark hair. He looks great in a tux. And that _accent._ "

"Is that right? Funny, I never saw you as the type to be attracted to geriatric men." The manner in which he made the statement – part disdain, part jealousy – drew her laughter.

"Geriatric? He's a man in the prime of his life," she retorted, smile widening when he hummed his displeasure. "Any other names?"

"Cáitríona for a girl." His brows furrowed. "I suspect it's the name of someone who cared for me when I was very young. I don't have a face to go with the name, more feelings, sensations."

"Happy ones, I'd guess?" she speculated.

"Mmmmm. Safety. Warmth. Love, even. I think whoever she was that she loved me very much for a time." Her heart tugged at his words, the soft longing in his voice.

"Say the name again for me."

"Cáitríona," he pronounced each syllable distinctly. "A gaelic version of Catherine, actually."

"Cáitríona." She tried the name on for size and found she liked it. "It's lovely." Setting aside the book, she sat up then moved across the sofa to straddle his lap, much to his surprise. A smile lit his face and his hands clenched her waist as she settled. She wrapped her arms around his neck and dove a hand into his hair. "Speaking of tall, slim men with accents…"

"If you're not careful, Miss Holt, I may start thinking you only want me for my body," he teased, running his hands up and down her sides. She leaned in to drop kisses along his jaw.

"Well, it is a very nice body, Mr. Steele." He laid his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes as her lips blazed a path down his neck.

"I've no need to worry about your lust for Sean Connery then?" Her breath warmed his neck when she laughed against it.

"Only if you misbehave, Mr. Steele. Only if you misbehave."

With a laugh of his own, he cupped the back of her head and drew her upwards so their lips could meet…


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

It had been a busy week thus far for Laura and Remington. A new case had arrived on their doorstep that would require them to go undercover as a married couple at a luxury resort right outside of Napa where someone, presumably a member of the staff, had been robbing the facility's wealthy clientele during their stay. The resort and spa catered almost exclusively couples, hailing the weeklong stays as 'romantic getaways', and Remington was more than curious to see how accommodations would play out. Would Laura's long standing traditions of separate but equal and no mixing business with pleasure hold, and he'd find himself relegated to a couch or chair? Only time would tell.

On the upside, they'd opted to resume a pair of roles he held a particular fondness for: Bob and Judy Peppler.

And, of course, on Monday afternoon Laura had disappeared for her meeting with the accountant, leaving Remington to twiddle his thumbs until Daniel had returned from lunch with Mildred.

Mildred!

That had come as a shock to both Remington and Laura. Mildred, conspiring with Daniel? It was inconceivable, yet it had happened. Two days after the discovery they still weren't sure if they should thank her or clobber her.

But she'd certainly come back from lunch with Daniel with a thousand-watt smile on her face.

On Monday evening, Laura had begged off of meeting with Daniel or going to dinner with he and Remington. She hadn't done it to avoid Daniel. The simple fact was she'd been tired to her bones and all she wished to do was take a long, hot shower, curl up with a book and retire early. The books on pregnancy had said lethargy could be expected, but still she resented it…

Until she remembered what they were getting in exchange.

On Tuesday morning they'd officially placed the flat on the market, and had engaged the services of a real estate agent to assist them in finding a home that met all their requirements. Afterwards? A flight to San Francisco followed by a drive to Napa. By the time they'd gathered employee and guest records, had familiarized themselves with the grounds, had taken time for a quick meal and returned home, it was already after ten. She hadn't made it five minutes into _White Heat_ before she was fast asleep against his shoulder. He'd eased her down until her head was pillowed on his lap, and hadn't roused her until close to one when he'd sent her off to bed. A quick shower, and soon he was spooned around her sleeping form.

Wednesday was to be no less busy of a day. In the morning, Remington and Laura would lock themselves behind closed doors and begin evaluating background checks on the names they'd gathered the prior day. At noon, she had an appointment to drop the Rabbit for service, followed by a twelve-forty-five appointment to show the loft. Then, at two o'clock, they'd meet at the OB/GYN for her appointment.

In the meantime, with time on his hands, Remington decided to invite Daniel to lunch at L'Ornate as his mentor would enjoy both the food and the amount of fawning Pierra and the staff would do over them.

"So, my boy, should I assume your Miss Holt will be leading you to the altar any day now?" Daniel had asked once their orders were placed and their drinks delivered.

Remington laughed ruefully.

"Ah, Daniel, you still don't see, do you?" he asked. "I'm the one with marriage on the mind, not Laura. I suspect it will take a great deal of convincing on my part to get her to that altar." Both men unconsciously leaned back from the table when the waiter delivered their salads, holding conversation until they were alone again.

"Opposed to the institution is she?"

"Let's just say fiercely independent and wary of the institution," Remington suggested. "History has told her marriages and relationships, in general, end badly." Daniel hummed his agreement at this.

"Linda and I don't see eye-to-eye on much of anything, but I must say that has been my experience. Can you disagree?" Remington fingered his glass as he considered the question.

"I've seen exceptions, yes, although they seem to be increasingly more rare. It's a roll of the dice, I'll give you that." He leaned slightly forward and lifted a pair of brows at the older man. "But if I've learned anything at all these last years with Laura, it's that she and I can accomplish anything so long as we're working, together, towards the same goal."

* * *

Laura hurried out of her building towards the waiting limousine. The showing of the loft had taken much longer than anticipated, but the delay had been well worth her tardiness, as she now had not one but _two_ offers in hand.

"Floor it, Fred," she directed the Agency chauffer, a she stepped into the limo. "Yellow lights are green today."

"Yes, Miss Holt," he confirmed, then shut the door behind her.

Soon, the limo was making its way through LA midday traffic while her mind switched gears towards the staff and guests still to be culled through. Reaching for the phone, she dialed the Agency.

"The Remington Steele Agency, Krebs speaking," Mildred's crisp voice greeted.

"Mildred, it's Laura," she announced. "How are you doing on the rest of those background checks?"

"Three more employees to go," Mildred answered as she thumbed through the papers in front of her, "And five guests. Ain't nothing to it. They'll be waiting on your desk when you and the Boss get back."

"Good, good," Laura praised. "When you're done, see what you can dig up on the Resort's financials."

"The works?" Mildred inquired.

"Loans, principals on the loans…" A thought struck her. "Do a background on the prin—"

Mildred's hand flew to her chest, and her face contorted as the phone clattered to the floor…


End file.
